807.73 
Sal5h 


AUTHOR 


Sabin,    E.    L. 


How  a  re 


feeling  now? 


*    .DATE 

LOANED 


BORROWER'S    NAME 


'47 


807-73 
6908^ 


Sabin,  E.  L. 

How  are  you   feeling 
now? 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 


•Oh.   no.      I'm   not  near  the  nerve — -yety 

KRONTISPIECE.     See  page  20 


HOW   ARE   YOU 
FEELING   NOW? 

BY 

EDWIN   L.  SABIN 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

TONY  SARG 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  79/7, 
BY  LITTLE,   BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 

Published,  September,  1917 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


URL 


DEDICATED 
WITH    MUCH    SYMPATHY 

BY 
MAN-OF-THE-HOUSE 

TO   THE 
LADY-WHO-MARRIED-ME 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    IN  EXPLANATION i 

II    IN  THE  ORCHESTRA  CIRCLE 4 

III  ON   A   DIET 25 

IV  "BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 5i 

V   A   LITTLE   FLIER   IN  APPENDICITIS     .    .  64 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  4 Oh,  no.    I 'm  not  near  the  nerve — yet'"   Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"  l  It 's  too  low  at  the  bottom  end,  and  forms  a 

sac  that  holds  the  food  too  long'  "  .      .     .      37 

"  '  Urn,'  he  announces,  having  surveyed  the  rascal, 

*  slightly  coated '" 58 

"Whenever  he  made  me  say4  Ouch!' he  appeared 

particularly  gratified" 67 


How  Are  You  Feeling  Now? 

CHAPTER  I 

IN   EXPLANATION 

IN  setting  down  these  memoirs  I  have 
not  the  slightest  shame,  because  after  a 
human  being  has  lived  for  a  few  dec- 
ades there  is  little  in  his  physical  make-up 
which  has  not  been  exposed  to  view.     His 
repairs  are  a  part  of  the   records  of  the 
dentist,  the  doctor,  the  hospital,  his  family 
and  numerous  interested  friends,  and  a  cer- 
tain element  of  adventure  attaches  to  him 
as  a  veteran  on  life's  battle-front. 

Very  few  persons  there  are,  not  open  to 
the  fascination  of  their  own  or  others' 
symptoms  and  the  discussion  of  the  expe- 
riences resulting;  and  if  by  my  relation  I 
may  add  to  the  sum  total  of  information 
upon  what  may  occur  outside  when  some- 
thing has  happened  inside  (speaking  ana- 
tomically), I  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  act 

[i] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

pro  bono  publico  regardless  of  a  natural 
shyness. 

The  ills  to  which  this  mortal  frame  is 
heir  are  of  very  great  importance,  not  only 
because  without  pain  we  would  not  know 
that  anything  was  the  matter  with  us,  but 
also  because  they  constitute  a  medium  of  so- 
cial intercourse  current  everywhere.  While 
I  may  be  accused  of  a  frivolous  attitude 
toward  such  serious  institutions  as  the  den- 
tist's chair  and  the  operating  table  and  the 
physician's  prescription  and  the  intestinal 
tract,  believe  me,  I  am  not  one  who  jests 
at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound. 

The  following  pages  will  demonstrate 
that  nobody  but  I  has  gone  through  what 
I  have  gone  through  —  although  I  don't 
anticipate  that  the  fact  will  be  publicly  ad- 
mitted by  numerous  invidious  rivals  bent 
upon  exploiting  their  own  minor  casualties. 
The  trouble  is,  that  when  we  come  to  the 
topic  of  teeth,  stomachs,  and  operations, 
most  of  us  want  to  do  the  talking  and  few 
of  us  are  willing  to  do  the  listening. 

That  is  where  the  dentist  has  the  advan- 
tage; he  may  talk  all  he  pleases.  And  as 
[2] 


IN   EXPLANATION 

I  am  going  to  see  him,  presently,  again,  I 
seize  upon  the  opportunity  to  sandwich  in 
my  say-so,  first,  while  at  the  same  time  dis- 
countenancing, for  the  moment,  the  above- 
mentioned  zealous  rivals. 


[3] 


CHAPTER  II 

IN   THE    ORCHESTRA   CIRCLE 

ATOTHER  one  of  my  teeth  in  the 
orchestra  circle  had  begun  to  act 
suspiciously.  At  first  I  ignored  it. 
That  is,  I  ostensibly  ignored  it,  only  ten- 
tatively allowing  it  the  luxurious  twinge 
from  hot  coffee  and  cold  water,  and  in  a 
very  unobtrusive  manner  querying  it  with 
my  tongue.  Now,  if  one  only  could  keep 
one's  tongue  away,  one  might,  I  daresay, 
be  successful  in  the  mental  treatment  of  a 
tooth.  But  those  stolen  visits  are  as  sweet 
as  stolen  fruit  —  and  by  rubbing  hard  with 
my  tongue,  and  sort  of  sucking  at  the  same 
time,  I  could  tease  that  tooth  awfully. 

In  equally  surreptitious  fashion  I  could 
stick  it  with  a  toothpick  and  at  sudden  mo- 
ments obtain  a  most  delicious,  even  while 
alarming,  writhe.  As  I  am  a  brave  man, 
I  persistently  showed  that  tooth  I  was  not 
afraid  of  it,  and  was  not  bulldozed  by  it. 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

If  it  wanted  to  act  up,  temporarily,  let  it  act. 

The  observant  Lady-Who-Married-Me 
saw  my  tongue-work,  and  abruptly  de- 
manded, out  of  that  embarrassing  perspi- 
cuity for  which  such  ladies  are  notorious: 

"What's  the  matter?  Does  your  tooth 
hurt?" 

"  Oh,  just  a  little  sensitive,  is  all.  Think 
I  must  have  caught  cold  in  it." 

"  You  'd  better  go  to  the  dentist,  had  n't 
you,  before  it  gets  worse?  " 

"  Maybe  I  will,"  I  replied  lightly  and 
with  the  reservation  which  springs  from 
hope  and  a  naturally  buoyant  disposition. 
"  I  '11  wait  a  little,  first."  I  always  do. 

But  a  tooth  never  recovers  of  itself. 
About  a  tooth  there  is  nothing  self-healing. 
That  I  have  demonstrated.  You  can  cut 
your  finger  clear  to  the  bone,  and  then  tie 
it  up  in  a  rag  and  answer  questions  about 
it,  and  it  gets  well.  You  can  sprain  your 
ankle,  and  by  humoring  it  a  little  //  gets 
well.  You  even  can  have  an  inflamed  ap- 
pendix, and  if  you  lie  on  your  back  with 
a  leg  up  high  enough  and  long  enough,  it 
(the  appendix,  not  the  unfortunate  leg) 

[5] 


HOW   ARE    YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

gets  well.  That  is,  if  you  're  too  poor  to 
have  it  extracted.  But  a  tooth  seems  to 
be  the  most  helpless,  unresourceful  member 
of  the  human  anatomy. 

The  den  of  our  dentist  is  located  in  a 
dentists'  and  doctors'  heaven  downtown, 
where  the  elevators  are  most  disconcert- 
ingly rapid.  My  idea  is  that  elevators  in 
such  a  place  should  be  slow  —  say  regular 
English  "  lifts "  -  so  as  to  allow  anybody 
who  changes  his  mind  to  step  out.  But 
I  have  observed  that  the  elevators  in  these 
"  professional "  office  buildings  are  the 
fastest  made,  and  I  have  long  suspected 
that  the  elevator  tenders  are  really  trained 
keepers  —  guards,  you  know.  In  this  type 
of  office  building  there  are  no  stairs;  or 
if  there  are  stairs,  the  janitor  is  always 
barring  the  way  with  a  mop.  So,  you  see, 
escape  is  cut  off,  unless  one  commits  justi- 
fiable homicide  by  jumping  out  of  a  win- 
dow, or  off  the  roof. 

The  elevator  was  full  of  the  customary 
desperate  souls,  on  every  face  the  cast  of 
grim,  sad  determination. 

Three  of  us  were  deposited  on  Floor 
[6] 


IN  THE  ORCHESTRA  CIRCLE 

Six:  one  disappeared  without  a  sound  in 
the  maw  of  Eye,  Ear,  Nose  and  Throat ; 
another  wended  a  little  way  with  me,  and 
was  engulfed  in  Dental  Surgery;  I  pro- 
ceeded alone  past  Diseases  of  the  Chest, 
past  Drs.  Brown  and  Brown,  past  R.  H. 
Peck,  M.D.,  J.  B.  Cheseman,  M.D.,  Q^  D. 
Gates,  M.D.,  Horatio  Bridges,  D.D.S.  (a 
horrifying  array,  this,  all  behind  one  door), 
past  Henry  Jones,  Oral  Surgeon,  past  P.S. 
Rector,  Orthodontist,  past  Robert  Judson, 
Anaesthetist,  past  two  more  M.D.'s  and  an- 
other D.D.S. ,  past  an  M.D.  and  a  D.D.S. 
closeted  together,  past  a  Diseases  of  the 
Stomach,  and  thus  have  advanced  by  suc- 
cesisve  steps  to  Antechamber  622.  I  firmly 
grasp  the  knob,  clammy  with  the  moisture 
from  many  previous  perspiring  palms,  and 
cross  the  Threshold  of  Sighs. 

Dentists'  dens  are  arranged  according  to 
the  one  formula :  There  is  this  antecham- 
ber, the  Room  of  Palpitation ;  a  middle 
room,  the  Room  of  Devastation;  and  a 
secret  third  room,  Seyond,  the  Room  of 
Exultation.  The  whole  is  the  suite  of 
Concatenation. 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

Usually  the  antechamber  is  occupied  all 
day,  and  no  doubt  all  night,  by  a  circle  of 
dumb  waiters,  who  receive  each  newcomer 
with  the  sad,  steadfast  scrutiny  of  utmost 
compassion.  The  chairs  are  occupied  only 
on  their  edges,  and  while  some  persons 
are  determinedly  reading  magazines  such 
as  the  beautiful  "  Dental  Digest "  and  the 
"  Alveolar  Record,"  or  a  last  year's  copy 
of  "  Punch,"  you  may  see  that  they  are  not 
deeply  interested.  If  there  is  a  man  with 
his  face  tied  up,  he  is  the  center  of  attraction. 

I  never  knew  a  fair  face  conceal  so  hard 
an  interior  as  that  of  the  young  woman  who 
promptly  appears  and  registers  each  arri- 
val in  her  Book  of  Doom.  She  has  a  busi- 
nesslike manner  which  precludes  any  ap- 
peal to  sympathy.  I  presume  that  outside 
of  the  building  she  regains  her  feminine 
attributes,  and  would  rescue  a  homeless 
kitten  as  quick  as  any  other  woman.  But 
in  the  antechamber  and  in  the  operating- 
room  I  never  yet  have  had  one  tender  ex- 
pression from  her.  She  is  adamantine.  I 
hope  she  sleeps  well,  but  I  doubt  it. 

When  a  fellow  is  in  a  hurry  with  a  tooth, 

[8] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

the  antechamber  is  always  full.  When  a 
fellow  is  not  in  a  hurry,  the  antechamber 
is  always  empty.  I  was  not  in  a  hurry;  I 
never  am  when  I  arrive.  My  tooth  was 
wholly  normal;  I  could  have  chewed  an 
iceberg  without  a  particle  of  discomfort. 
Inasmuch  as  I  was  not  in  a  hurry  —  not 
one  particle  in  a  hurry  —  the  antechamber 
proved  empty  of  everyone  save  a  stern 
woman  with  a  shrinking,  wide-eyed  child, 
and  before  I  had  a  chance  to  turn  around 
and  retreat,  the  young  woman  before  men- 
tioned advanced  aggressively  upon  me  with 
her  book,  the  roll  of  the  world's  heroes  and 
heroines. 

The  conversation  is  conducted  along 
well-established  lines. 

"  Is  the  doctor  in?" 

Of  course,  he  always  is.  However,  one 
always  has  the  hope  that  he  is  n't.  And  if 
he  is  n't- 

"  I  '11  see,"  informs  the  young  lady,  as  a 
mere  matter  of  words.  And  she  leaves  me 
to  comradeship  of  the  stern  mother  and  the 
subduedly-staring  child. 

From  the  middle  chamber  wells  a  mur- 

[9] 


HOW  ARE   YOU   FEELING  NOW? 

mur,  and  a  weak  "  All  right,  Doctor. 
Tuesday  afternoon.  Good-day";  and  then 
emerges  through  the  doorway  a  large  man 
with  his  mouth  still  awry,  and  his  eyes 
glassy  and  moist.  He  hastily  seizes  his  hat, 
evades  our  querying  survey,  and  totters 
forth,  his  steps  sounding  brisker  as  he  re- 
cedes down  the  echoing  corridor. 

The  young  woman  beckons  to  the  stern 
mother,  who  leads  in  the  helpless  child; 
and  to  me  she  (the  young  woman)  warns, 
implacably: 

1  The  doctor  will  see  you  in  a  moment." 

Then  when  she  withdraws  she  leaves 
the  door  ajar,  so  as  to  make  sure  of  my 
movements. 

The  mother  and  child  are  detained  only 
briefly.  With  me  in  prospect  the  case  evi- 
dently is  not  interesting  and  can  be  post- 
poned. Anyway,  my  dentist  dismisses  the 
child  case  with  alacrity;  the  twain  hasten 
out,  and  he  appears  in  the  doorway,  smiling 
expectantly  and  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  Now  for  you,"  he  challenges  —  or 
words  to  that  effect. 

My  back  is  to  the  wall.  I  am  a  man 
[10] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

who  won't  have  his  eyes  bandaged  for  the 
firing  squad,  and  I  speak  right  up. 

"  How  are  you,  Doctor?  I  have  a  tooth 
that  seems  to  bother  me  a  bit  —  nothing 
especial,  you  know  —  just  a  little  sensitive; 
think  I  must  have  caught  a  little  cold  in 
it;  but  you  might  look  at  it,  if  you  will. 
I  don't  think  it  will  amount  to  anything." 

"  Take  the  chair,"  he  invites. 

The  young  woman  is  busy  effacing  the 
traces  of  recent  assaults,  preparing  the  un- 
easy bed  for  me.  She  whisks  a  fresh  nap- 
kin for  my  head,  and  with  the  sangfroid 
of  her  training  gathers  the  well-worn  in- 
struments for  repairs.  I  take  the  chair  — 
or,  rather,  the  chair  takes  me.  The  arms 
contract,  to  hold  me  fast;  the  dentist  deftly 
presses  a  spring,  and  back  I  am  tilted  until 
I  cannot  possibly  get  up  without  help. 
That  help,  of  course,  I  shall  not  be  granted, 
until  he  is  good  and  through  with  me. 
Why  in  thunder  was  I  so  weak  as  to  come, 
anyway! 

"  Ah  —  let 's  look  into  it  and  see  what 's 
the  trouble,"  murmurs  the  dentist;  and  I 
open  up.  It  is  too  late  to  resist,  now. 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

The  young  woman  hovers  near;  I  ob- 
serve her  with  the  corner  of  one  eye,  and 
I  'd  like  to  tell  her  that  she  'd  better  go 
about  her  business.  But  the  dentist,  an 
eager  smile  on  his  deceitful  face,  obscures 
me  with  his  white  coat,  while  he  poises  the 
cruel  little  pick  that  he  has  selected  from 
his  tinkling  hoard.  His  finger  enters  my 
mouth,  and  holds  down  the  lower  jaw. 

It  is  the  dream  of  my  life  sometime  to 
bite  a  dentist's  white  finger  squarely  off. 
What  joy!  However,  I  never  have.  I 
wonder  what  would  happen  if  I  did.  I 
suppose  he  'd  grow  another;  dentists  must, 
for  no  doubt  there  are  spirits  less  meek  than 
mine,  and  yet  I  never  saw  a  three-fingered 
dentist.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  more  apt 
to  be  six-fingered,  and  all  fingers  inside 
one's  mouth  when  the  moment  is  interesting. 

"  Which  tooth  is  it?  "  asks  my  dentist. 

"  'Hird  back  fum  middle  right  shide, 
bottom,"  I  hazard. 

His  glance  narrows;  his  smile  fades; 
zounds,  he  has  found  it!  —  or  found  some- 
thing, anyway. 

"  Er  —  I  see,"  he  murmurs  calculatingly ; 

[   12] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

and  retaining  his  finger-hold  he  uses  the 
other  hand  and  inserts  his  pick,  butt  first. 
He  taps.  "Is  that  it?" 

The  young  woman  advances,  on  the  other 
side,  and  she,  too,  peers.  What  a  fierce 
expression  she  has  for  one  who  should  be 
all-pitying!  I  wish  she  would  n't  look  into 
my  mouth.  It  is  my  property,  mortgaged 
though  it  may  be  by  reason  of  the  extensive 
repairs.  I  don't  think  that  looking  into  a 
person's  mouth  is  proper  pastime  for  a 
young  woman.  It  certainly  must  destroy 
her  faith  in  the  divinity  of  the  human  crea- 
tion, and  make  her  an  atheist. 

"  Is  that  it?  "  queries  the  dentist,  tapping. 

"  Don't  'hink  so.  Negst,"  I  garble.  If 
I  only  can  move  him  along,  down  the  row, 
I  have  a  chance  to  escape. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  he  murmurs;  and  his  face 
brightens.  "  Discoloration  —  yes,  you  have 
a  small  cavity  started."  He  reaches  behind 
him,  and  without  turning  his  head  accu- 
rately seizes  another  instrument  —  a  minia- 
ture probe  of  wire-like  taper  without  the 
ball  point.  Dentists  always  file  off  any  ball 
points  on  their  instruments. 

[13] 


HOW  ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

This  he  inserts,  and  prods  around,  with 
delicate  and  sure  hand.  I  can  feel  that 
sharp  wire  penetrating  in  and  in,  and  on 
and  on,  and  presently  it  will  pass,  rapier 
fashion,  down  through  my  alveolar  process, 
through  that  mysterious  mass  of  nerves  and 
tissue  and  bone,  and  probably  protrude  out- 
side my  collar.  But  while  I  am  braced  to 
yelp,  he  extracts  it,  examines  the  point  in 
order  to  measure  the  depth,  even  sniffs  at 
it,  with  his  third  hand  (for  dentists,  as  you 
are  aware,  have  more  hands  than  a  monkey) 
inserts  a  mirror,  and  twists  the  mirror  in 
various  directions  so  that  it  clatters  pleas- 
antly. A  dentist  should  make  an  expert 
heliograph  operator. 

"  You  have  a  bad  molar  there,  too,"  he 
remarks,  as  the  mirror  clatters  along,  ex- 
ploring my  interior.  It  pauses,  while  he 
examines. 

"  Have  I?  "  I  gurgle.  "  It  'sh  aw-right, 
though.  Doesh  n't  borrer  any." 

The  young  woman  examines.  The  stony 
expression  in  her  clear  gray  eyes  petrifies 
me,  and  on  the  end  of  her  nose  is  a  freckle. 

"  It  will  need  attention  some  day,"  con- 

[14] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

tinues  the  dentist.  "  And  so  will  this  bi- 
cuspid," and  he  taps  it.  "  Who  put  that 
filling  in,  I  wonder." 

"  You  did,"  I  retort. 

But  he  shakes  his  head,  and  wipes  his 
mirror  on  a  napkin. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  he  says.  "  Let  me 
see,  though."  And  while  still  firmly  hold- 
ing down  my  lower  jaw  with  his  finger  he 
reaches  some  eight  or  ten  feet  in  the  other 
direction,  to  a  card  index.  He  plucks  out 
a  card  which  comprises  a  diagram  like  the 
diagram  of  a  horse's  mouth  in  a  veterinary 
manual,  and  scrutinizes  it.  I  assume  that 
this  is  the  diagram  of  my  mouth,  but  I  can't 
recognize  it.  For  one  thing,  it  has  too  many 
teeth.  It  must  be  an  ideal  diagram. 

"  No,  that 's  not  my  work.  I  thought  so," 
he  declares,  of  course.  "See?"  I  don't 
see.  "  I  never  would  have  put  an  amalgam 
filling  in  such  a  place.  It  should  have  been 
gold." 

A  dentist  is  presumed,  and  he  is  so  rated, 
to  know  his  own  teeth,  but  you  can't  get 
him  to  admit  part  ownership  in  poor  work. 
It  is  always  the  fault  of  another  dentist,  or 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

of  the  tooth.  However,  the  case  was  not 
to  the  point,  and  neither  was  the  post- 
mortem chart. 

"What  about  that  first  tooth?"  I  hint. 
"  Do  you  think  it  needs  fixing?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  certainly.  There's  a  cavity 
started,  beyond  doubt." 

"  Going  to  fix  it  now?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.    I  have  a  vacant  half  hour." 

"  Will  it  take  long?  " 

"  No,  I  should  n't  think  so." 

"  Not  a  big  cavity,  is  it?  " 

"  Um-m-m  —  no;  apparently  not."  He 
rummages  about  in  my  mouth,  with  finger 
and  mirror  and  relays  of  instruments,  try- 
ing to  clear  away  the  other  teeth  so  that 
he  may  get  a  different  look.  He  looks. 
"  Um-m-m  —  there  's  quite  a  soft  spot. 
You  never  know,"  and  he  brightens  hope- 
fully, "  what  may  open  up.  Sometimes  a 
large  cavity  will  scarcely  show  on  the  sur- 
face. But  we  '11  soon  see." 

He  at  last  removes  his  restraining  finger 

from  my  lower  jaw,  and  I  can  close  and 

swallow.     But  the  respite  is  to  be  short. 

The  scene  is  one  of  alarming  activity.    The 

[16] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

young  woman  springs  at  me  and  tightly  ties 
a  bib  around  my  neck.  I  submit  to  her 
embrace,  but  I  don't  love  it.  The  dentist 
has  got  out  all  his  instruments,  every  one, 
each  different  —  and  each,  as  I  know, 
worse,  except  the  wadder,  as  I  call  it,  with 
which  he  packs  the  filling.  I  always  look 
forward  to  the  moment  when  he  takes  up 
the  wadder. 

He  dumps  them  upon  the  little  leaf-table, 
under  my  nose,  and  rolls  them  about  lov- 
ingly. He  selects  the  sharpest  and  inserts 
it  into  his.  electric  drill  —  and  tests  the  drill 
with  a  preliminary  buzz.  Evidently  it  is 
in  fine  fettle.  The  young  woman  brings  a 
fresh  glass,  and  renews  the  pile  of  napkins, 
and  leaves  a  drawer  open  so  that  I  may  see 
a  row  of  shiny  forceps.  Then  by  main  force 
they  tip  me  back,  until  I  lie  staring  upward 
like  a  flounder. 

"  All  right,"  says  the  dentist,  which  is  his 
"  Open  sesame  ";  and  I  open.  The  young 
lady  immediately  tucks  a  hospital  size  roll 
of  absorbent  cotton  well  back  into  the  hinge 
of  my  jaws,  and  I  am  gagged  as  effectively 
as  I  am  trussed  and  stretched. 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

The  dentist  is  ready;  apparently  so  am 
I,  but  I  am  not.  I  have  a  question  to  ask. 
He  nimbly  picks  out  his  first  tool  —  which, 
I  can  see  along  the  bridge  of  my  nose,  is 
only  a  swabber  (these  terms  are  not  very 
technical,  I  agree)  and  he  industriously 
swabs.  I  let  him. 

He  discards  the  swab,  and  seizes  the 
drill!  Now  the  supreme  moment  is  upon 
me.  Before  his  hand  fills  my  mouth  I  stay 
him  by  a  convulsive  sound. 

"  '111  it  'ut?  "  I  utter  despairingly.  I 
have  cast  all  false  pride  aside.  This  is  no 
time  nor  place  for  conventional  heroics.  I 
bare  my  very  soul,  even  before  the  young 
woman;  I  want  to  know  if  it  is  going  to 
hurt,  and  I  expect  him  to  lie  to  me.  He 
obligingly  does. 

"Oh,  no;  not  much.    Steady,  please." 

"  Brrr!  "  The  drill  stops,  having  failed 
to  make  me  jump,  and  seeks  another  spot. 
"Brrr!" 

"  Sensitive?  "  queries  the  dentist. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  gurgle,  foolishly. 

So  the  drill  finds  another  spot.  I  wince. 
Aha!  That  was  the  symptom  awaited. 
[18] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

"Brrr!"  hastens  the  drill,  with  diabolical 
joy.  "Brrr!  Brrr!"  It  sounds  like  an 
automobile  on  low  gear.  "Brrr!  Brrr!" 
It  is  snugly  embedded,  eating  in  with  the 
fell,  remorseless  march  of  a  mustard  plaster 
—  of  a  mustard  plaster  concentrated  •  and 
focused  and  tied  fast  with  adhesive  tape. 
I  don't  believe  that  he  can  pull  it  out  again. 
If  there  was  n't  any  cavity  before,  there  is 
one  now;  and  it 's  getting  as  hot  as  Hades. 
I  must  endeavor  to  think  of  something  else. 

Like  other  dental  offices,  this  one  is 
located  directly  opposite  a  clipping  bureau 
and  a  wholesale  merchant  tailoring  suite  — 
or  something  of  the  kind.  Along  the  bridge 
of  my  nose  and  over  the  ends  of  my  toes  I 
can  see  across  to  their  floors.  They  appear 
all  free  and  happy  and  careless.  The  girls 
of  the  clipping  bureau  take  turns  standing 
at  their  windows  and  fixing  their  hair, 
while  they  gaze  over  at  my  dentist  and  me. 
They  laugh  and  comment  with  the  aban- 
don of  senoritas  at  the  bull-ring,  or  Roman 
ladies  at  the  arena. 

The  merchant  tailor  and  his  clerks  and 
his  cutters  form  another  set  of  spectators; 

[19] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

they  sit  on  their  window  ledges  for  hours 
at  a  time,  enjoying  the  show.  But  I  am 
helpless  in  my  indecent  exposure,  and  the 
dentist  callously  grinds  away.  He  even 
sings  to  himself ;  and  "  Brrr!  Brrr!  Birr!" 
sings  the  infernal  drill. 

It  has  dug  a  well  about  six  feet  deep, 
and  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  protest. 

"Hurt  a  little?"  asks  the  dentist,  paus- 
ing to  cool  his  instrument  so  that  he  can 
hold  it.  "  Must  be  a  little  sensitive  there." 

I  nod  and  gurgle.  My  mouth  is  afloat; 
if  I  don't  swallow  I  shall  choke;  but  I 
can't  swallow  and  I  don't  choke;  I  only 
go  through  the  tortures  of  it.  The  dentist 
inserts  a  sort  of  a  hookah  stem  which  hangs 
to  my  lower  teeth  on  the  off  side,  and  emp- 
ties me  by  hydraulic  suction,  so  I  merely 
dribble. 

"  Shtrike  nerve?"  I  splutter. 

He  smiles  pityingly;  not  with  pity  for 
me,  but  with  pity  for  my  weak  ignorance. 

"  Oh,  no.    I  'm  not  near  the  nerve  —  yet. 

But  there  's  apt  to  be  a  little  sensitiveness 

when  the  drill  passes  through  the  dentine. 

Um-m-m  —  the    cavity    is    larger    than    I 

[20] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

thought,  however,  now  that  I  'm  opening 
it  up."  Cavities  always  are.  "  Let  me  take 
a  look."  In  the  interval  while  he  drops  his 
drill  (I  can  see  that  the  point  is  white-hot, 
just  as  I  had  thought)  to  cool  it,  and  grabs 
his  mirror,  my  tongue  darts  to  that  tooth 
-  or  where  the  tooth  used  to  be. 

Cavity!  Why,  I  can  stick  my  whole 
tongue  into  the  vacancy.  And  I  do,  until 
the  dentist  drives  it  out  with  his  mirror, 
although  there  is  space  for  both. 

After  the  mirror,  and  while  the  drill  is 
cooling,  he  loses  no  time  but  turns  to  hand 
work.  I  crane  and  see  what  he  has  before 
he  sticks  it  in.  It  is  one  of  those  chisels 
which  look  like  a  gooseneck  putter  in  mini- 
ature. He  digs,  he  chips,  he  splinters;  the 
perspiration  stands  on  his  brow,  my  head 
is  almost  wrenched  from  its  neck.  He  has 
found  the  much-sough t-f or  sore  spot;  he 
can  tell  by  the  way  I  scowl  at  him,  and 
curl  my  toes.  He  works  at  that  sore  spot 
with  the  persistency  of  a  mouse  gnawing  to 
freedom.  Ever  and  anon  he  squirts  water 
in,  to  hear  it  hiss  and  to  ask  mechanically: 

"Does  that  hurt?" 

[21] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

It  does. 

He  resumes  his  drill.  He  discards  dulled 
instruments  and  grabs  fresh  ones,  while  the 
young  woman  frantically  sharpens  the  old 
ones.  The  scene  demands  a  Dante  or  a 
Dore;  and  I  demand  any  release,  even 
death.  But  no  one  dies  from  seasickness 
or  the  dentist. 

I  was  a  long  time  in  the  chair  —  this 
present  chair,  I  would  say;  oh,  a  very  long 
time.  Ages  passed,  and  all  the  instruments 
had  been  sharpened  and  resharpened,  and 
people  had  come  and  gone  and  my  lower 
jaw  was  immovably  ossified,  and  really 
nothing  mattered  any  more,  when  suddenly 
he  sighed,  clattered  about  inside  with  his 
mirror,  and  at  his  grunt  the  young  woman 
deposited  beside  him  a  little  bowl  of 
amalgam!  He  picked  up  his  wadder  — 
that  blessed  instrument  for  which  I  had 
been  waiting,  but  which  seemed  never 
forthcoming. 

"  Done?  "  I  gurgled,  a  wild  thrill  arous- 
ing me  to  hope  anew. 

He  nodded.  Could  it  be?  Yes!  He 
granted  himself  the  last  indulgence  of  a 
[22] 


IN    THE    ORCHESTRA    CIRCLE 

few  more  pecks,  wound  up  by  a  salvo  of 
superheated  air  accurately  directed  by  an 
asbestos  bug  gun,  and  now  he  must  wad. 

No  more  delicious  morsel  ever  enters 
human  mouth  than  that  first  bit  of  amal- 
gam —  the  actual  and  visible  evidence  that 
the  worst  is  over.  He  packed ;  he  wadded ; 
he  plainly  enough  was  bent  upon  dislocat- 
ing that  jaw,  if  he  could,  and  I  blissfully 
let  him  pack,  and  wad,  and  do  his  D.D.S't. 

The  tooth  was  crammed  fuller  and  fuller; 
I  could  hear  the  amalgam  scrunch  and 
scrunch  —  a  delightful  sound,  for  it  was 
filling  the  hole,  and  no  drill  should  get  in 
there  again. 

The  dentist  scraped  off  the  edges,  be- 
stowed one  final  examination,  bid  me  bite 
down  (he  withdrew  his  finger  first),  re- 
examined,  and  sighed  approval.  He  re- 
moved the  gag,  and  the  hookah  stem,  and 
invited  me  to  spit.  I  spat  —  thereby  rid- 
ding myself  of  accumulated  swallows  and 
considerable  amalgam.  He  took  off  the 
bib,  tilted  me  forward  to  perpendicular, 
and  I  was  free  to  rise. 

Suddenly  I  loved  that  dentist,  after  all, 

[23] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

despite  the  fact  that  his  coat  sleeve  had  worn 
most  of  the  skin  from  my  nose  and  that  my 
two  jaws  did  not  meet  by  two  inches.  How- 
ever, they  came  together  gradually,  during 
the  next  few  days,  although  for  a  time  my 
molars  seemed  prone  to  miss  connections 
and  to  grind  upon  my  bicuspids. 

"  Drop  in,  in  a  day  or  two,  and  I  '11 
polish  it,"  he  invited,  referring  to  the 
tooth. 

But  I  did  n't,  and  I  sha'n't,  although  the 
Lady-Who-Married-Me  thinks  that  I  have. 
I  never  have  the  time  and  the  inclination 
together.  Enough  for  me  to  walk  the  bright 
street,  my  chest  out  and  head  slightly  canted 
from  the  extra  ballast,  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  have  been  through  the 
shadows  and  have  again  survived,  with 
credit. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 
ON  A  DIET 

BUT  being  on  a  diet  is  worse  than 
having  your  teeth  filled.  From  the 
standpoint  of  physical  pain,  it  is  n't 
to  be  compared  to  the  dentist's  tortures; 
but  the  mental  anguish  of  it  —  oh! 

The  human  stomach  is  closely  connected 
with  the  welfare  of  man. 

This  is  a  competent  beginning.  It  is  a 
premise  which  I  defy  anybody  to  gainsay. 
It  is  a  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  It  is  a  Mount 
Ararat  in  the  midst  of  a  flood,  and  I  con- 
fidently perch  there,  while  around  about 
exists  no  bottom. 

The  human  stomach  as  diagramed  in 
the  encyclopedia  resembles  the  map  of 
South  America,  and  as  a  potentiality  ex- 
ercises the  revolutionary  characteristics  of 
that  realm.  It  varies  in  size:  in  youth 
being  longer  than  thick,  and  reaching  from 
the  chin  to  the  heels;  in  ripe  maturity 

[25] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

being  thicker  than  long,  and  reaching  from 
the  back  two  feet  beyond  the  natural  plumb- 
line. 

However,  't  is  not  for  me,  a  layman,  to 
essay  a  description  of  stomachs  in  general. 
One  stomach  is  all-sufficient  for  the  con- 
fines of  this  essay;  and  that  is  my  own 
stomach. 

Throughout  my  life,  to  the  period  of 
which  I  am  about  to  write,  I  had  been 
pleasantly  associated  with  my  stomach. 
There  was  not  what  you  might  term  an  in- 
timacy between  us;  I  never  had  seen  my 
stomach,  I  never  really  had  given  it  much 
thought,  it  was  rather  a  silent  partner  in 
my  anatomical  organization,  content  with 
its  dividends  three  times  a  day  and  rarely 
growling.  "  Ave  atque  vale,"  "  welcome 
and  pass  on,"  seemed  to  be  the  motto  above 
the  doorway  of  its  private  office.  Good 
old  stomach,  which  in  moments  of  great 
satisfaction,  say  after  Thanksgiving  dinner 
or  other  gastronomic  event,  I  occasionally 
ventured  to  address,  with  a  pat,  as  "  Bill." 

"  Bill,"  mysterious  "  Bill,"  was  well  past 
his  hobbledehoyhood  of  lankness  and  more 
[26] 


ON    A   DIET 

length  than  thickness,  and  was  nicely  round- 
ing into  form  (I  write  this  literally),  when 
he  got  a  grouch.  I  don't  know  why.  We 
all  tried  to  find  out,  but  he  proved  to  be  a 
noncommittal  cuss;  and  as  there  is  no  ac- 
counting for  tastes,  so  there  was  no  account- 
ing for  the  taste  in  my  mouth. 

By  this  taste  did  Bill  the  stomach  an- 
nounce his  grouch,  the  tongue  seeming  to 
be  his  office-boy. 

The  Lady-Who-Married-Me  decided 
that  no  doubt  I  was  "  a  little  bilious,"  and 
she  prescribed  a  casual  attention  to  diet. 

"  I  would  n't  eat  quite  so  much  for  a 
day  or  two,"  she  said  wisely.  "  Give  the 
stomach  a  rest.  Maybe  that  pie  last  night 
upset  you." 

Just  why  only  half --a  customary  half, 
to  which  silence  always  had  given  assent - 
of  a  nice  crispy  hot  apple  pie  suddenly 
should  offend  Bill  I  could  not  understand; 
but  as  the  advice  of  the  Lady-Who-Mar- 
ried-Me uniformly  is  good,  I  took  it  and 
humored  Bill  to  the  extent  of  a  pretense 
at  "  diet."  I  had  coffee,  dry  toast,  and 
poached  egg  for  breakfast;  bread  and  milk 

[27] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

for  lunch;  a  chop,  a  baked  potato,  and  a 
bit  of  tapioca  pudding  for  dinner. 

Bill  was  not  placated.  He  kept  his  office- 
boy,  of  disagreeable  mien,  at  his  portal,  and 
the  aura  of  the  private  office  itself  appeared 
to  be  a  portentous  dark  brown.  Evidently 
the  grouch  continued. 

We  both  —  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me 
and  I  —  were  considerably  puzzled  by  the 
attitude  of  Bill  the  stomach.  We  catered 
to  him  by  every  means  within  our  knowl- 
edge. Of  course,  a  stomach  is  hard  to  deal 
with,  being  so  secluded.  You  have  to  work 
largely  by  guess.  I  hate  to  argue  with  man 
or  woman  through  a  screen  door,  and  to 
argue  through  a  keyhole  is  worse.  The 
taste  persisted;  Bill's  doldrums  persisted; 
nothing  that  we  could  devise,  by  help  of  the 
huckster,  the  grocery,  the  meat  market  or 
the  drug  store,  evoked  from  him  a  cheery 
word  or  a  smile,  and  finally  I  took  him  to 
the  doctor. 

The    doctor   did    not   evince    particular 

alarm;    he  was  not  much  impressed  by  the 

vicious  demeanor  of  the  office-boy  tongue 

and  merely  "  a-hemmed  "  in  a  bland  man- 

[28] 


ON    A    DIET 

ner  when  I  told  him  that  sometimes  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  entertaining  a  boiled  sea-urchin. 
He  asked  me  if  I  had  had  similar  trouble 
with  Bill  in  previous  years;  and  when  I  in- 
formed him  that  our  relations  always  had 
been  most  harmonious,  he  bestowed  upon 
me  a  small  envelope  of  drab  disks  the  size 
of  undershirt  buttons,  and  asserted  that  if 
I  took  one  before  meals  I  would  soon  be 
"  all  right." 

But  he  did  n't  know  Bill.  Neither  did 
I.  As  a  stomach  Bill  was  dreadful  "  sot." 
He  had  inherited  a  characteristic  of  my 
family. 

The  doctor  counseled  me  to  go  slow  for 
a  few  days;  to  "diet"  a  little. 

"  I  have  been  dieting,  Doctor." 

"Well;  continue.  Relax  in  your  work; 
take  more  exercise;  seek  variety  in  your 
recreations  and  your  food ;  stick  to  what 
agrees  with  you;  when  you  find  something 
that  does  n't  agree  with  you,  drop  it." 

That  was  practical.  The  trouble  was, 
that  what  did  n't  agree  with  me  was  Bill 
the  stomach;  and  to  quit  Bill  seemed  out 
of  the  question. 

[29] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

The  doctor's  button  disks  were  a  new 
taste,  while  drifting  down,  and  I  swallowed 
them  religiously,  according  to  directions. 
They  were  ignored  by  Bill,  but  I  had  nine- 
teen of  them  to  dispose  of.  I  also  piled  out 
of  bed  at  six  in  the  morning  and  took  Bill 
for  a  brisk  walk  before  breakfast  —  five 
blocks  down  the  street,  three  blocks  across, 
six  blocks  back  up  that  street,  the  three 
blocks,  in  reverse,  again,  and  one  block 
home.  All  the  late  cats  and  early  dogs 
along  the  route  soon  knew  me  well. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  to  the  farthest 
car-line;  at  noon  I  walked  around  several 
down-town  blocks;  and  in  the  afternoon, 
arriving  home  about  four-thirty,  I  mowed 
the  lawn  or  dug  new  garden  holes  until 
dinner,  and  following  dinner  we  walked 
again  —  the  three  of  us,  the  Lady-Who- 
Married-Me,  I,  and  Bill. 

For  Bill  was  still  much  in  evidence;  that 
is  to  say,  he  was  much  in  effect,  although, 
like  the  Mikado  of  old,  he  was  not  to  be 
seen.  He  was  still  an  immovable  body 
against  which  we  had  arrayed  no  irresist- 
ible force,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  I 
[30] 


ON    A   DIET 

had  swallowed  all  the  drab  disks  and  had 
been  supplied  by  the  doctor  with  black  ones. 

"Try  eating  more  fruit  —  fresh  fruit," 
advised  the  doctor.  "  And  take  a  glass  of 
hot  water  upon  arising  in  the  morning. 
Limit  yourself  to  the  easily  digested  foods, 
such  as  eggs,  malted  milk,  and  soups." 

"  I  shall  diet  now  in  strict  earnest,"  I  said 
to  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me,  "  and  cure 
this  thing  up.  It 's  run  long  enough." 

"  It  certainly  has,"  agreed  the  Lady-Who- 
Married-Me. 

About  this  epoch  I  rode  down-town  with 
Brown --Brown  of  Brown  &  Jones,  to  be 
exact.  Bill  the  stomach's  unhappy  frame 
of  mind  was  making  me  unhappy  also,  for 
this  falling  out  of  old  friends  distressed  me 
much. 

"Getting  thin,  aren't  you?"  queried 
Brown  delicately.  "What's  the  matter?" 

"  Oh,  stomach  's  out  of  whack,"  I  ex- 
plained specifically. 

Brown  was  all  sympathy. 

"  That  so?    What  you  doing  for  it?  " 

"  The  doctor  gave  me  some  stuff,  as  a 
helper.  Then  I  'm  drinking  hot  water  be- 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

fore  breakfast,  eating  plenty  of  fresh  fruit, 
and  limiting  myself  to  a  light  diet." 

Brown  nodded. 

"  I  see.  Diet 's  the  thing,  and  the  only 
thing  in  a  case  like  that.  But  you  take  my 
advice  and  cut  out  the  hot  water.  Cold 
water  is  what  you  need.  Hot  water  relaxes 
the  stomach;  cold  water  acts  as  a  tonic  — 
by  reaction;  understand?  Mrs.  Brown  had 
a  stomach  just  like  yours,  and  hot  water 
never  feazed  it;  she  changed  off  to  cold 
water,  and  was  well  in  a  week!  Cold  water 
is  a  bracer.  And  if  I  were  you  I  would  n't 
tackle  much  fresh  fruit.  Lots  of  stomachs 
won't  stand  fresh  fruit;  makes  acid.  Acid 
keeps  the  stomach  irritated.  Now,  my  wife 
can't  touch  fresh  fruit  at  all;  neither  can 
I.  But  we  eat  plenty  of  cooked  fruit." 

Brown's  advice  sounded  good;  the  Lady- 
Who-Married-Me  agreed  with  it,  and  the 
only  question  seemed  to  be  whether  it 
agreed  with  Bill  the  stomach.  However, 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  had  an  amend- 
ment to  offer. 

"  I  was  talking  with  Mrs.  Smith  to-day 
and  I  happened  to  mention  that  you  were 


ON    A   DIET 

having  a  little  trouble  with  your  stomach, 
and  she  thinks  you  're  taking  too  much  ex- 
ercise. Mr.  Smith  had  exactly  the  same 
trouble,  she  says,  and  he  could  n't  do  a  thing 
with  it  until  he  began  to  rest  more.  For  a 
month  he  had  his  breakfast  in  bed,  and  he 
rested  an  hour  before  and  after  every  meal; 
and  it  cured  him." 

That  also  sounded  reasonable,  inasmuch 
as  the  exercise  regime  had  not  prevailed 
with  the  obstreperous  Bill.  I  followed 
Brown's  suggestion  as  to  the  cold  water  and 
the  cooked  fruit  instead  of  hot  water  and 
fresh  fruit;  instead  of  exercise  I  tried  to 
rest.  I  quit  the  walks  and  the  lawn  and 
garden;  my  ante-breakfast  route  witnessed 
my  passage  no  longer,  and  I  scrupulously 
lay  upon  the  couch  an  hour  after  breakfast 
and  was  late  at  the  office;  came  home  at 
noon  to  rest  likewise  an  hour  before  and 
after  lunch  (thereby  missing  important 
noon  conferences)  ;  and  even  rested  an 
hour  before  and  after  dinner. 

All  this  did  not  especially  please  Bill. 
His  motto  above  his  portal,  once  reading, 
so  comfortingly,  "  Ave  atque  vale,"  now 

[33] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

appeared  to  be  "  Abandon   Hope  of  All 
That  Enters  Here." 

I  had  been  taking  the  rest  cure  by  lying 
on  my  back,  until  the  Lady-Who-Married- 
Me  read  in  the  poultry  journal's  "  Health 
and  Wealth  "  column  that  after  eating,  one 
should  lie  upon  the  right  side.  This 
"  facilitated  the  passage  of  the  food  along 
the  intestines."  Horrors!  Here  I  had  mis- 
understood Bill's  appeals,  and  had  been  in- 
creasing his  grouch  by  lying  on  my  back 
both  before  and  after. 

It   was   about   time   to   change   doctors. 
White  —  Ben    White,    the    undertaker  - 
sent  me  to  a  good  one  who  had  cured  him 
(White)   of  another  stomach  trouble  "  ex- 
actly "  like  mine. 

"  He  '11  fix  you  up,"  assured  White. 
"  He  does  n't  give  medicine,  much,  but 
he  's  great  on  diet." 

The  doctor  interviewed  the  office-boy 
tongue,  "  a-hemmed,"  and  asked  me  what 
I  had  been  accustomed  to  eat.  He  shook 
his  head  over  the  word  vegetables. 

"  There  's  the  point,"  he  said.  "  Yours 
does  not  strike  me  as  a  vegetable  case.  You 

[34] 


ON    A   DIET 

are  crowding  your  digestive  apparatus  with 
an  excess  of  starch.  Eat  more  meat  and 
less  of  the  fibrous,  starch  vegetables;  in 
fact,  for  a  time  quit  starchy  foods  entirely 
-white  bread,  pastry,  and  all  —  and  con- 
fine yourself  mostly  to  the  lean  meats.  That 
will  give  your  digestive  apparatus  the 
needed  rest.  And  you  'd  better  stop  fruit 
altogether,  whether  cooked  or  fresh.  Have 
your  meat  ground,  and  chew  it  well,  but 
don't  mix  fruit  acid  with  it." 

"  How  about  breakfast?  "  I  queried. 

"  Meat  for  breakfast,  by  all  means,"  he 
declared.  "  Meat  for  breakfast  is  prefer- 
able to  meat  at  noon.  The  stomach  is  much 
more  able  to  take  care  of  it  in  the  morn- 
ing, after  a  night's  respite.  I  believe  in 
meat  for  breakfast." 

This  again  sounded  like  reasonable  doc- 
trine, and  I  left  the  office  quite  encouraged. 
If  Bill  wanted  meat,  meat  he  should  have, 
no  matter  how  much  it  cost.  We  raised  our 
own  vegetables  --  Lady-Who-Married-Me 
and  I  --but  meat  we  must  buy.  However, 
no  matter,  if  only  Bill  was  placated. 

He  did  n't  seem  to  approve,  decidedly, 

[35] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

of  the  meat  diet;  but  a  happy  thought  was 
communicated  to  the  Lady-Who-Married- 
Me,  and  she  in  turn  communicated  it  to  my 
own  eager  ears. 

"  Mrs.  Holt  says  that  she  was  bothered 
for  a  year  with  her  stomach,  just  like  you, 
until  she  went  to  an  oculist.  He  said  that 
it  was  her  eyes  —  she  had  eye-strain;  and 
he  fitted  her  to  glasses  and  she  's  been  per- 
fectly well  ever  since  she  put  them  on." 

And  I  had  been  blaming  Bill!  Blaming 
patient  old  Bill,  who  was  being  made  a 
scapegoat  by  those  rascal  eyes!  Sure 
enough;  the  oculist  found  my  right  eye 
two  octaves  flat  and  my  left  eye  badly 
faded.  It  was  a  wonder  that  I  had  been 
able  to  see  at  all,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that 
my  stomach  had  troubled  me. 

"  You  '11  feel  much  better  now,"  he  en- 
couraged, when,  effectually  short-circuited 
by  those  confounded  rims,  I  left,  stepping 
high,  as  if  avoiding  stray  eggs. 

Improvement  was  very  slow:  the  eyes 
did  not  yield  and  acknowledge  the  corn 
gracefully,  and  Bill's  grouch  had  become 
a  habit. 

[36] 


It 's  too  low  at  the  bottom  end,  and  forms  a  sac  that  holds  the 
food   too  long. '  "  —  rage  J/ 


ON    A   DIET 

"Losing  flesh,  aren't  you?"  invited 
Jones --Jones  the  insurance  man. 

"  Yes.  Stomach  's  gone  back  on  me,"  I 
proffered. 

"  What  are  you  doing  for  it?  " 

I  told  him.  He  at  once  saw  the  error  of 
my  ways. 

"  Now,  you  listen  to  me,"  he  bade.  "  I 
had  the  same  kind  of  stomach  trouble  a 
couple  of  years  ago,  and  I  know  just  what 
you  're  going  through.  Doctors  are  all 
right,  but  they  make  mistakes,  like  anybody 
will;  and  dieting  is  all  right,  if  properly 
carried  on.  I  believe  your  stomach 's 
dropped!  It's  too  low  at  the  bottom  end, 
and  forms  a  sac  that  holds  the  food  too 
long.  Understand?  The  less  work  you 
give  it,  with  ground  meat  and  soft  stuff, 
the  worse  it  will  be.  What  it  needs  is  ex- 
ercise to  strengthen  the  muscles.  You  try 
eating  whatever  you  fancy,  for  a  while,  and 
make  the  stomach  work.  The  fact  is,  we 
modern  people  save  the  stomach  too  much, 
with  our  predigested  fodder,  and  let  it  loaf 
on  us.  Then  the  muscles  relax.  But  cut 
out  the  liquids;  cut  out  soups,  and  don't 

[37] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

drink  more  than  a  few  sips  of  water  at  a 
time.  I  quit  liquids,  but  I  ate  everything 
in  moderation,  even  pie.  That  old  hoax 
that  piecrust  is  indigestible  is  exploded; 
it 's  just  the  thing  for  the  stomach  to  work 


on." 


Now  this  did  sound  reasonable.  Bill  was 
loafing  on  me,  was  he?  Soldiering,  eh? 
Sly  old  Bill! 

The  Lady-Who-Married-Me  nodded. 

"  I  Ve  heard  of  dropped  stomachs,"  she 
averred.  "  Mrs.  Martin  had  one.  She 
drew  it  up  by  exercises.  And  as  for  pie, 
it  never  has  hurt  you,  has  it?  If  I  were 
you  I  'd  go  right  ahead  and  eat  whatever 
I  wanted,  but  I  'd  avoid  liquids.  Drink- 
ing with  meals  is  bad  anyway.  Why  don't 
you  try  quitting  coffee,  too?  Now  's  a  good 
chance.  Perhaps  coffee  does  n't  agree  with 
you." 

The  return  to  three  square  meals  a  day 
was  delightful,  although  they  were  rather 
dry.  Mrs.  Martin  showed  the  Lady-Who- 
Married-Me  several  muscle  exercises  that 
helped  to  cure  her,  and  would  cure  me. 
They  consisted  in  pausing  during  the  day, 

[38] 


ON    A   DIET 

and,  without  interference  with  the  breath- 
ing, waggling  the  stomach  in  and  out,  or 
up  and  down,  to  be  specific,  twenty-five 
times.  The  same  was  to  be  performed  in 
bed,  when  awake.  During  business  hours 
opportunities  were  so  haphazard  that  fre- 
quently I  was  much  embarrassed,  caught 
in  these  convulsions;  but  I  persevered,  and 
Bill  grew  sore. 

As  for  me,  apart,  I  missed  my  coffee  and 
my  water,  and  was  shrinking  so  rapidly  that 
I  could  slip  my  chin  inside  my  former  tight 
collars. 

Happily,  the  washerwoman  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"  I  was  telling  Mrs.  McGraw  (who  was 
the  washerwoman  in  question)  about  the 
siege  you  're  having,"  informed  the  Lady- 
Who-Married-Me,  "  and  she  asks,  why 
don't  you  quit  eating  breakfast  for  a  while? 
She  had  your  stomach  trouble,  and  the  only 
thing  that  cured  her  was  omitting  break- 
fast. Lots  of  people  don't  eat  breakfast. 
An  old  German  doctor  proposed  this  to 
Mrs.  McGraw.  He  said  that  in  the  morn- 
ing, after  a  night's  quiet,  the  stomach  was  n't 

[39] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

ready  to  start  right  in  on  food.  Why  don't 
you  talk  with  Mrs.  McGraw?  " 

I  did. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  retailed  Mrs.  McGraw,  — 
who  was  thin  and  yellow  and  not,  as  seemed 
to  me,  very  robust, — "  I  Ve  eat  no  breakfast 
for  over  a  year,  an'  I  ain't  been  troubled 
with  dyspepsy  since.  All  I  take,  when  I 
get  up,  is  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"  But  are  you  sure  that  coffee  is  good  for 
you?"  I  demanded. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  declared  Mrs.  McGraw. 
"  This  idee  that  coffee  hurts  people  is  all 
humbug.  My  doctor  says  that  a  cup  of 
nice  strong  coffee  taken  clear  never  hurt 
nobody.  They  think  it  does,  but  it  don't; 
it 's  something  else." 

"  You  might  try  it,  dear,"  suggested  the 
Lady-Who-Married-Me.  "  I  Ve  always 
heard  that  if  you  took  coffee  without  cream 
or  sugar  it  was  n't  harmful." 

Going  without  breakfast  usually  gave 
me  a  headache,  but  coffee  might  act  as  a 
"  stayer  "  until  luncheon-time.  Besides,  I 
like  coffee,  and  Bill  never  had  objected  to  it 
—  much.  Therefore  I  proceeded  to  adopt 
[40] 


ON    A   DIET 

the  McGraw  system,  and  warmed  Bill  with 
a  cup  of  clear  coffee  in  the  morning  but 
annoyed  him  with  naught  else. 

I  have  read  of  sea-cucumbers,  big  worms, 
who  can  turn  themselves  inside  out  and  in- 
spect themselves.  But  man  has  no  such 
structural  advantage.  As  Doctor  Henny 
explained: 

"  You  cannot  get  at  the  stomach.  You 
can  put  a  broken  arm  in  a  sling  and  keep 
it  quiet;  you  can't  do  that  to  the  stomach. 
Therefore  the  process  of  healing  is  very 
slow." 

This  was  another  doctor,  recommended 
by  my  friend  Edwards. 

"  You  go  to  Doctor  Henny,"  said  Ed- 
wards. "  Tell  him  I  sent  you.  I  had  your 
stomach  trouble,  and  he  was  the  one  who 
fixed  me  right." 

Doctor  Henny  "  a-hemmed." 

"  The  main  difficulty  is,"  he  explained, 
"  that  you  go  too  long  without  sufficient 
nourishment.  You  're  weakening  yourself. 
Dinner  should  be  eaten  at  noon.  Omit 
breakfast,  if  you  like,  but  eat  your  hearty 
meal  of  the  day  at  noon  instead  of  at  night. 


HOW  ARE   YOU   FEELING  NOW? 

Dinner  at  night  is  bad,  anyway.  At  close 
of  day  the  human  vigor  is  low;  we  load 
the  stomach  with  a  great  mass  of  stuff,  the 
stomach  is  inclined  to  be  sluggish;  we  sit 
around,  and  read,  and  draw  the  blood  to 
the  brain,  the  food  ferments,  and  frequently 
we  go  to  bed  with  it  undigested;  then  in 
the  morning  we  have  that  *  bad  taste.'  The 
custom  is  wrong,  dead  wrong.  We  must 
digest  with  our  legs  as  well  as  with  our 
stomach;  and  we  should  eat  our  hearty 
meal  of  the  day  in  the  midst  of  activities, 
not  at  the  end." 

About  the  same  time  I  made  a  discovery, 
for  myself!  It  was  in  the  "  Current  Com- 
ment "  of  a  monthly  magazine.  "  I  ought 
to  drink  more  water,  dear,"  I  announced. 
"  Scientists  have  been  experimenting,  down 
at  Washington,  and  they  Ve  proved  that 
plenty  of  water  drunk  during  meals  helps 
digestion  instead  of  retards  it!  Some  of 
the  experimenters  drank  a  quart  of  water 
at  a  meal!  " 

"  We  Ve  been  doing  wrong,  then,  have  n't 
we!"  deplored  the  Lady-Who-Married- 
Me.  "  We  Ve  always  been  taught  that 
[42] 


ON    A   DIET 

much  water  with  meals  was  injurious.  And 
you  Ve  been  drinking  none!  " 

I  was  glad  to  be  on  the  water-wagon 
again,  for  water  with  meals  always  had 
been  one  of  my  delights.  Nevertheless,  Bill 
acted  mean  as  dirt  about  it. 

By  this  time  I  hated  Bill  with  fierce,  hot 
hatred.  I  would  gloatingly  have  consigned 
him  to  hara-kiri,  could  that  have  been 
achieved  without  permanent  detriment  to 
myself. 

My  eyes  were  acting  outrageously,  and 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  was  sure  that 
the  glasses  did  not  fit.  As  the  oculist  in- 
sisted that  they  did,  I  went  to  another  man 
who  was  the  same  thing  under  a  different 
name,  and  who  had  been  recommended  by 
our  neighbor  Henderson. 

He  found  that  the  glasses  fitted  as  well 
as  practicable;  but  he  said  that  he  could 
do  little  until  my  stomach  was  quieted. 

"  On  the  other  hand,"  I  suggested,  "  is  n't 
it  likely  that  the  eyes  are  what  cause  the 
stomach?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  he.  "  The  stomach 
undoubtedly  is  affecting  the  eyes.  Er  — 

[43] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

by  the  way,  what  are  you  doing  for  the 
stomach?  " 

I  told  him. 

"  I  see,"  he  mused.  "  Er  —  are  you  a 
teetotaler?  " 

I  admitted  a  democratic  leniency,  al- 
though, as  Bill  could  testify,  "  soft  drinks  " 
and  kitchen  brews  were  our  standbys. 

"  You  try,"  counseled  the  oculist  under 
a  different  name,  "  a  small  glass  of  sherry 
before  meals.  Try  it.  It  cured  me.  I  had 
your  dyspepsia  (he  did  n't  though,  and  such 
an  assertion  was  insulting)  for  years.  Took 
everything,  did  everything;  got  down  to 
ninety-seven  pounds.  An  old  family  doctor 
put  me  up  to  this  experiment  of  sherry; 
some  stomachs  need  the  stimulant  to  excite 
a  flow  of  the  digestive  fluids." 

While  I  was  standing  on  a  corner  that 
noon,  waiting  for  a  car,  and  writh  a  bottle 
of  sherry  in  my  side  coat-pocket,  Peters, 
the  attorney,  came  swinging  by. 

"  Hello,"  he  hailed.    "  Been  to  lunch?  " 

"No;  I'm  going  home  at  noon,  now," 
I  explained. 

"  That  so?    Losing  flesh,  are  n't  you?  " 

[44] 


ON    A   DIET 

"  Yes.    Stomach  's  gone  back  oji  me." 

"  I  see.  Knocking  off  afternoons,  are 
you?  That's  right.  Just  you  keep  it  up." 

"  Not  exactly.  But  we  're  having  dinner 
at  noon,  instead  of  at  night.  Thought  I  'd 
try  that  for  a  spell." 

"  Don't  you  do  it;  don't  you  do  it,  old 
man,"  besought  Peters,  earnestly.  "  I  know 
some  doctors  advise  it,  but  it 's  a  mistake, 
in  a  business  man.  Makes  you  stupid  all 
the  rest  of  the  day.  Now,  in  the  evening  a 
man  is  through  with  the  day's  work,  or 
ought  to  be;  his  mind  is  at  peace;  he  has 
plenty  of  time  for  his  meal  and  for  quiet 
afterward.  I  had  your  stomach  trouble; 
know  what  it  is,  precisely;  know  what 
the  doctors  advise;  but  I  never  gained  one 
iota  by  having  dinner  at  noon.  Made  me 


worse." 


"  But  I  understood  that  it 's  not  best  to 
sit  down,  for  the  evening,  after  a  hearty 
meal." 

"  Bah!  "  scoffed  Peters.  "  Don't  animals 
usually  sleep  after  eating?  Did  n't  you  ever 
hear  of  the  two  dogs  —  fed  at  the  same  time 
on  the  same  articles,  and  one  taken  for  a 

[45] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

long  walk  and  one  left  at  home?  And  how, 
when  they  were  killed  and  their  stomachs 
were  examined,  the  stomach  of  the  one  who 
had  been  left  at  home  was  empty  and  the 
stomach  of  the  other  was  still  full?  No; 
you  use  common  sense:  eat  a  good  break- 
fast, skip  noon  entirely,  and  have  a  regular 
dinner  at  night.  Just  try  that  for  a  while, 
and  I  '11  guarantee  it  will  fix  you." 

Peters'  voice  was  confident;  his  form  and 
complexion  were  convincing;  and  I  some- 
how felt  that  maybe  I  had  missed  Bill's  de- 
mand by  just  this  simple  margin  —  a  mere 
error  of  sequences,  in  the  combination  of 
meals.  So  I  more  hopefully  hastened  home 
(accompanied  by  Bill),  with  the  news  and 
the  sherry. 

The  sherry  would  have  been  first  class, 
had  Bill  the  stomach  taken  to  it  with  any 
relish,  and  had  the  Lady-Who-Married- 
Me  not  immediately  come  upon  the  diffi- 
culty in  the  tentative  treatment.  She  found 
another  item,  which  read: 

"  Experiments  have  demonstrated  con- 
clusively that  the  introduction  of  alcohol, 
in  any  appreciable  quantities  such  as  is  con- 
[46] 


ON    A   DIET 

tained  in  wines  and  spirits,  into  the  human 
stomach,  at  once  produces  a  congestion  and 
a  distinct  cessation  of  the  digestive  fluids. 
Thus  those  persons  who  ignorantly  think 
that  by  drinking  wine  or  spirits  or  so-called 
*  bitters '  as  an  '  appetizer '  they  are  aiding 
digestion,  are  doing  the  very  opposite.  All 
the  stimulus  received  is  a  false  stimulus." 

"There!"  gasped  the  Lady-Who-Mar- 
ried-Me.  "  It 's  just  as  well — and  I  '11  use  the 
sherry  in  puddings,  when  you  can  eat  them." 

So  we  finally  decided  to  take  Bill  to  a 
sanatorium.  I  went  along,  in  my  astral 
body  (my  physical  proportions  having  van- 
ished) ;  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  went, 
in  order  to  see  that  careless  people  did  not 
sit  on  me  or  step  through  me. 

"  Please  drive  slowly.  My  husband  is 
a  very  sick  man,"  she  tenderly  explained 
as  I  was  airily  flipped  into  the  'bus  which 
would  convey  us  to  the  sanatorium. 

When  we  had  gone  about  two  of  the 
miles,  a  thunder  storm  —  sort  of  cyclone 
and  cloudburst  —  bogged  the  'bus,  carried 
off  the  team,  and  left  us  stranded  before  a 
shack  of  a  farmhouse. 

[47] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

"  Sick  man,"  announced  we  all  to  the 
Mrs.  Farmer,  who  viewed  our  advent 
with  concern.  "  Can  you  keep  him 
overnight?  " 

"Mercy  on  me!"  ejaculated  the  Mrs. 
Farmer.  "  S'pose  I  can,  but  I  ain't  got  a 
thing  in  the  house  fit  for  him  to  eat.  Hens 
ain't  layin',  an'  spring  chickens  are  all  gone, 
an'  cow  is  dry." 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  assured  the  Lady- 
Who-Married-Me.  "  He  can't  eat.  His 
stomach  has  gone  back  on  him." 

"  Pore  man,"  commiserated  the  Mrs. 
Farmer. 

So  they  put  Bill  and  me  in  a  bedroom; 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  of  course  was 
determined  to  stay  to  the  end,  but  the  sana- 
torium employees  trudged  away. 

"  There  's  not  a  thing  here  for  you  to 
eat,  dear,"  reported  the  Lady-Who-Mar- 
ried-Me, after  a  reconnoissance.  "  But  do 
you  think  of  a  thing  you  can  eat?  " 

"  Not  a  thing,"  I  responded  accommo- 
datingly. 

After  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  had 
left,  along  with  a  clatter  of  dishes  was 
[48] 


ON    A   DIET 

wafted  in  through  the  door  ajar  a  delicious 
odor.  I  realized  that  somewhere,  near  at 
hand,  strong,  ostrich-gifted  men  and  women 
were  sitting  about  a  festive  board,  like  gods 
and  goddesses  on  Mt.  Olympus,  and  were 
devouring  ambrosia.  Bill  pricked  up  his 
ears;  I  felt  him  do  so. 

The  more  I  sniffed,  the  more  covetous 
became  Bill;  and  while  the  office-boy 
tongue  actually  perspired  with  eagerness 
I  called  lustily  for  the  Lady-Who-Mar- 
ried-Me. 

She  came,  bringing  with  her  more  of  the 
wondrous  atmosphere. 

"  What  is  that?  "  demanded  Bill  and  I. 

"  What,  dear?  " 

"  That  smell." 

"  Dearest,  is  n't  it  awful?  I  '11  shut  the 
door.  But  do  you  know,  pork  and  cabbage 
is  all  the  family  has  for  dinner." 

"For  the  love  of  Mike!"  chortled  Bill 
and  I,  while  the  office-boy  tongue  driveled. 
"  Send  some  in." 

"  Boiled  pork  and  cabbage,  dear?"  she 
gasped.  "  Oh,  my  darling!" 

"  Then  I  '11  die  righting,"  I  announced. 

[49] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

"  And  if  by  the  time  I  reach  that  table 
there  is  no  delicate  boiled  pork  and  cab- 
bage left,  the  tragedy  will  be  general." 

I  being  desperate,  and  Bill  being  desper- 
ate, and  the  office-boy  tongue  being  almost 
uncontrollable,  to  placate  us  a  morsel  of 
boiled  pork  and  cabbage  was  marched  in 
to  us,  and  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  and 
the  Mrs.  Farmer  and  the  hired  man  stood 
about  with  bated  breath. 

But  there  was  no  need  of  fear.  Bill 
jumped  for  that  pork  and  cabbage.  In  half 
an  hour  he  sent  up  word  for  more.  At  mid- 
night he  was  ready  for  pork  and  cabbage 
breakfast;  and  after  breakfast  he  was  ready 
for  pork  and  cabbage  dinner. 

We  did  n't  go  on  to  the  sanatorium,  for 
Bill  was  all  right.  He  has  been  all  right 
ever  since.  However,  anybody  reading 
about  my  experiences  with  diets  will  see 
how  to  cure  stomach  trouble — albeit  boiled 
pork  and  cabbage  of  course  is  not  the  thing 
to  try. 


[50] 


CHAPTER   IV 

"BETTER    SEE   THE    DOCTOR" 

"  "¥ "V  EAR,  you  are  n't  well,  are  you?  " 
•  solicitously  accuses  the  Lady- 

\^J   Who-Married-Me. 

"  No,  I  don't  feel  extra  well,"  I  admit 
virtuously.  "  I  feel  beastly." 

"  I  knew  you  did.  But  why  have  you 
been  keeping  it  to  yourself?"  It  always 
rewards  me  to  realize  that  I  am  a  martyr 
of  the  sterner  stuff.  "  That  is  so  like  a  man. 
Where  are  you  feeling  sick?  " 

Now,  that  is  a  most  irritating  question. 
Where  am  I  feeling  sick!  Where!  When 
I  'm  feeling  beastly! 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  off.  I  Ve  had  a  headache 
for  three  days,  and  nothing  tastes  good. 
Stomach  seems  upset.  I  feel  beastly." 

"  Then  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  I  did  n't  want  to  worry  you,"  I  mag- 
nanimously inform. 

"  But  it 's  so  foolish  to  try  to  conceal 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

those  things,"  she  reproves,  severely.  "  You 
ought  to  go  to  the  doctor.  You  might  have 
something  very  serious  the  matter  with  you. 
Where  else  do  you  feel  sick?  " 

Where  else,  indeed!  Why,  when  a  man 
feels  beastly^  there  's  no  "  where  else."  He 
has  covered  all  his  territory,  explored  and 
unexplored. 

"  Everywhere.  Generally  mean,"  I  groan. 
"  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter."  And 
now  I  feel  much  worse  than  before.  I  can 
afford  to  give  way  to  it,  at  last. 

"  Then  you  must  see  the  doctor,"  pro- 
claims, in  most  gratifying  alarm,  the  Lady- 
Who-Married-Me.  "  Promise  me  you  '11 
see  him  at  once,  without  any  more  delay. 
You  can't  tell  what  may  be  the  matter  with 
you  and  you  must  n't  let  it  run.  You  owe 
it  to  me  as  well  as  to  yourself  to  have  what- 
ever it  is  attended  to  immediately.  Promise 
me!" 

"All  right.  I  guess  I  will,  then,"  I 
promised. 

Planning  to  see  the  doctor,  one  first  makes 
preparations  as  for  a  long  absence  from 
familiar  haunts.  It  is  quite  impossible  to 

[52] 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

see  a  first-class  doctor,  except  through  the 
crack  when  the  door  is  hastily  opened,  in 
less  than  half  a  day;  and  then,  while  he  is 
occupied  on  the  far  side  of  the  door  in 
making  three  dollars  every  ten  minutes, 
you,  on  the  near  side  of  the  door,  are  oc- 
cupied not  at  all,  and  losing,  if  you  are  a 
person  of  any  consequence  whatsoever,  at 
least  ten  dollars  a  minute.  The  longer  I 
sit  in  the  doctor's  antechamber,  the  greater 
my  earning  capacity  appears. 

So  I  put  my  ofiice  affairs  in  order  and* 
started  for  the  doctor's  office  early,  in  order 
to  be  first.  But  I  knew  that  I  would  n't 
be  first.  I  never  am. 

The  beastly  feeling  had  assumed  curious 
quirks  and  turns,  ebbing  and  flowing  like 
the  toothache.  When  I  reflected  that  I  car- 
ried only  three  thousand  dollars  life  insur- 
ance, I  had  Bright's  disease  or  else  cancer 
-  the  symptoms,  you  know,  being  identi- 
cal; and  when  I  apprehended  the  interval 
before  I  would  be  told  which,  I  was  sure 
that  I  had  neither. 

Of  course  I  was  n't  first.  Sometime  I 
should  like  to  throw  down  a  blanket  outside 

[53] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

the  doctor's  suite  and  camp  there  all  night, 
in  order  to  see  who  really  is  first,  especially 
whether  it  is  the  two  women  with  one  baby, 
the  man  with  the  largely  developed  foot,  or 
the  other  man  with  the  bandage  around  his 
jaws.  I  have  an  idea  that  one  of  these  three 
is  constantly  employed  on  hand  as  a  nu- 
cleus, on  the  theory  that  like  draws  like. 

These  community  reception-rooms 
adopted  by  the  modern  doctors  and  den- 
tists I  don't  fancy  at  all.  Around  about  is 
a  succession  of  closed  doors  bearing  por- 
tentous symbols,  and  ever  and  anon  a  next 
unfortunate  is  summoned  to  the  mysterious 
realm  beyond.  If  you  are  in  a  hurry  and 
waiting  on  Doctor  Brown,  Doctor  Brown's 
doorway  is  the  popular  one. 

Having  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  re- 
ception-room, I  join  the  sad,  shamed  as- 
semblage now  gathered,  each  wondering 
what  is  the  matter  with  the  others,  and  all 
suddenly  telepathically  inquiring  what  is 
the  matter  with  me.  The  attendant  nurse 
whisks  out  from  one  of  the  lairs,  mentally 
sizes  me  up,  registers  me  in  her  profes- 
sional category,  asks  whom  I  wish  to  see, 

[54] 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

and  disappears  to  tell  him  that  another  one 
has  arrived.  I  may  find  a  seat,  which  is 
adjoining  the  seat  of  the  man  with  the 
broken  jaw  and  opposite  the  man  with  the 
swaddled  foot. 

What  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with 
them?  What  do  they  suppose  is  the  matter 
with  me?  It  is  a  great  study  in  the  anatomy 
of  melancholy.  Occasionally  the  door  open- 
ing to  admit  another  sample  of  erring  flesh 
interrupts;  and  now  and  again  the  nurse's 
inquiring  "  Next?  "  causes  a  hopeful  stir. 
But  we  do  not  lose  sight  of  symptoms, 
nor  laugh  and  jest  in  happy  comradeship. 

I  have  my  beastly  feeling  thoroughly 
briefed,  with  all  the  gradations  in  proper 
sequence  leading  up  to  the  climactic  decla- 
ration that  will  embrace  all.  I  would  like 
to  make  a  memorandum  of  those  symptoms 
-  in  fact,  I  should  have  made  a  memoran- 
dum, for  I  well  know  that  I  shall  omit  the 
most  important.  It  is  easy  to  see  which  of 
us  has  new  symptoms,  by  the  way  with 
which  he  or  she  hustles  confidently  in,  when 
called.  Doctors  are  always  glad  to  be  in- 
formed of  new  symptoms,  I  presume;  that 

[55] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

is  what  makes  life  interesting  to  them.  It 
must  be  very  dull  to  have  a  malady  merely 
flow  along  and  not  require  fresh  combina- 
tions of  hieroglyphics  for  the  perusal  of  the 
druggist.  My  symptoms  sound  to  me  pro- 
saic, but  I  don't  mean  to  disappoint  the 
doctor  if  I  can  help  it. 

I  am  next.  I  am  certain  that  I  am  next, 
at  last —  although  when  I  recount  noses  and 
manifest  ailments  I  have  forgotten  whether 
that  elderly  woman  catty-corner  from  me 
came  in  after  me  or  before.  I  alertly  fol- 
low the  back  of  the  nurse  through  the  door 
obligingly  held  open  by  her. 

She  closes  the  door,  and  here  I  am,  facing 
the  DOCTOR.  Now  if  he  tries  to  tell  me  that 
my  beastly  feeling  does  n't  amount  to  much, 
I  shall  be  thoroughly  indignant.  And  prob- 
ably he  will,  confound  him,  after  I  have 
waited  so  long  and  have  made  my  mind  up 
to  the  worst.  He  even  will  charge  me  as 
much  for  telling  me  one  thing  as  another. 

There  he  sits,  immaculate,  calm,  scien- 
tific, reviewing  the  ills  of  the  world  while 
they  pass  before  him  in  one  door  and  out 
another,  at  three  dollars  a  ten  minutes. 
[56] 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

"  How  are  you,  Doctor?  "  I  address,  in 
a  manifest  effort  at  buoyancy,  which 
should  impress  him  with  the  gravity  of 
the  situation. 

"How  are  you?  "  he  responds,  promptly 
putting  me  in  my  proper  place;  and  I  may 
shake  the  hand  that  wields  the  scalpel,  the 
while  beyond  him  I  may  glimpse  the  nurse 
frisking  about  in  the  ghastly-white  operat- 
ing-room, wiping  up  things  and  grinding 
instruments  —  perhaps  for  me. 

Our  interchange  of  greetings  is  mere  for- 
mality. I  don't  care  how  he  is  (nobody 
worries  about  a  doctor's  health),  and  he 
is  perfectly  aware  that  if  I  were  well  I 
would  n't  come. 

"  Not  feeling  very  good,  Doctor,"  I  can- 
didly inform  him.  "  In  fact,  feel  beastly." 
And  there  he  has  the  denouement  in  a 
nutshell. 

"Um?"  murmurs  the  doctor.  "I  see." 
And  what  does  he  see,  already?  "  Sit 
down.  How  long  has  this  been  going  on?  " 

Zounds!  How  long  has  what  been  going 
on?  Evidently  his  doctor's  sixth  or  seventh 
sense  has  X-rayed  me,  and  by  his  grave  de- 

[57] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

meaner  I  may  understand  that  my  plight 
is  as  serious  as  I  had  anticipated.  Oh,  he 
may  charge  me  anything  consistent  with 
three  diplomas  (one  in  Latin),  if  he  '11  only 
tell  me  the  worst  at  once! 

"  About  a  week  or  ten  days,  Doctor." 

"  Any  pronounced  symptoms?  " 

If  I  but  had  that  list!  A  few  jottings, 
even,  on  my  cuff,  would  help  us  both,  no 
doubt.  The  trouble  is,  I  'm  not  a  quick 
thinker  in  a  crisis,  and  now  no  one  symp- 
tom seemed  to  take  precedence  over  another. 
For  fear  of  putting  him  on  the  wrong  track, 
I  would  better  generalize. 

"  Well,  beastly,  Doctor.  Mean  all  over, 
you  know." 

"  Um-m.  Exactly.  Let 's  see  the 
tongue." 

I  exhibit  "  the  tongue."  His  words  ex- 
press it:  it  is  "  the  tongue,"  a  changeling 
of  which  I  would  gladly  be  rid. 

"  Urn,"  he  announces,  having  surveyed 
the  rascal,  "  slightly  coated,"  and  I  re- 
turn it. 

He  acts  alarmingly  relieved,  as  if  he  had 
been  looking  for  a  grave  symptom  and  had 

[58] 


"'Urn, 'he  announces,  having  surveyed  the  rascal,  'slightly 
coated.'  "  —  Pae  jS 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

somehow  missed  it;  so  I  will  give  him  op- 
portunity to  retrieve  himself. 

"  Pretty  bad,  is  n't  it?  "  I  well  know  that 
this  tongue  had  the  surface  of  a  peeled 
banana. 

"  Not  at  all.  A  little  furry,  perhaps. 
Er  —  sleep  well?  " 

Confound  him!  —  for  that  was  the  one 
thing  that  I  did  do,  sleep  well. 

"  Yes,  I  sleep  well  enough,  Doctor." 

"  Appetite  fair?  " 

I  must  cogitate  an  instant,  so  as  to  be 
very  frank;  there  should  be  nothing  with- 
held from  the  doctor. 

"  Pretty  fair,  Doctor.  Nothing  extra. 
Things  don't  seem  to  taste  right,  somehow." 

"  Losing  weight?  " 

No,  darn  him,  I  wasn't!  What  is  the 
use  in  his  beating  around  the  bush  in  this 
fashion,  wasting  my  time?  I  must  take  the 
initiative,  and  insist  upon  his  knowing  the 
worst,  so  that  I  may  know  the  worst. 

"  I  have  considerable  headache,  though, 
Doctor  —  a  dull  sort  of  headache.  My  wife 
thought  I  ought  to  tell  you.  And  I  seem 
to  get  dizzy  if  I  stoop  over  and  rise  up 

[59] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

suddenly,  a  peculiar  sort  of  dizziness.  I 
did  n't  know  but  that  it  might  be  my  kid- 
neys (Bright's  disease!),  or  my  liver  (ossi- 
fied liver!),  or  something  wrong  with  my 
stomach." 

Now  I  had  him  going! 

"Backache?" 

Hurrah !  My  back  did  ache,  on  occasion, 
but  I  had  forgotten  that.  I  hastened  to  as- 
sure him. 

"  Show  me  about  where,"  he  invited. 

Contrarily  enough,  my  back  was  n't  ach- 
ing at  all  just  at  present,  and  the  last  ache 
was  n't  permanently  registered.  A  back- 
ache is  a  backache  to  me,  except  lumbago 
—  which  I  never  have.  There  is  the  hoe 
backache,  for  example;  and  the  grip  back- 
ache; and  the  backache  when  I  try  to  wear 
a  belt  without  suspenders:  all  aches  cover 
about  the  same  territory,  somewhere  be- 
tween my  waistband  and  the  nape  of  my 
neck. 

"  Oh,  along  in  here,"  I  hazarded.  "  Prin- 
cipally the  middle." 

"Um!  I  see,"  responded  the  doctor. 
But  he  did  n't  ring  his  bell  for  the  nurse 
[60] 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

and  bid  her  attend  us  to  the  little  white 
room  beyond;  he  did  n't  consult  a  tome  in 
his  mystical  library,  and  he  did  n't  ask  me 
how  my  affairs  were  and  how  much  life 
insurance  I  carried.  He  left  me  sitting 
with  bated  breath  and  searching  for  very 
important  symptoms  that  I  had  at  my 
tongue's  end  when  applying  for  admission, 
and,  turned  to  his  desk,  he  began  to  scribble 
offhand  on  a  pad  of  paper,  in  a  sort  of  de- 
cisive, dismissful  manner  which  told  me 
that  my  three  dollars'  worth  of  ten  minutes 
was  up,  and  the  best  had  been  done  for  me. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said,  extending  to 
me  the  slip  of  paper,  with  evident  relief  at 
having  disposed  of  me  so  easily.  "  Get  this 
filled,  please.  It  will  fix  you  out,  I  'm  sure. 
You  might  drop  in  again,  or  'phone  me,  in 
about  a  week,  and  let  me  know  how  you  're 
getting  on." 

"  Then  you  think  it 's  nothing  serious, 
Doctor?  "  I  ventured,  for  I  was  still  bound 
to  know  the  worst. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Nothing  whatsoever."  He 
was  rising. 

"  Er  —  not  my  kidneys,  then?  The  diz- 
[61] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

ziness,  you  know  —  and  that  backache  —  " 
I,  also,  was  rising. 

"  No,  nothing  of  the  kind."    He  was  up. 

"  Or  my  liver?  It  seemed  to  me  —  "  I 
too,  was  up. 

"No,  no!  Liver  might  be  a  little  slug- 
gish; often  is.  You  're  slightly  logy,  is  all. 
Water-logged.  I  've  given  you  a  prescrip- 
tion to  correct  it."  He  began  to  back  me. 
"  Pleasant  day,"  he  proffered.  "  Good-by." 

And  with  the  nurse  vigilantly  hovering 
on  the  horizon,  to  lend  him  assistance  should 
I  prove  too  curious  about  myself,  he  bowed 
me  in  the  direction  that  I  ought  to  take. 

I  immediately  found  myself  shut  out  in 
the  hall,  holding  my  hat  and  the  slip  of 
paper.  Of  course  I  could  n't  read  the  pre- 
scription, which  was  a  cunning  combina- 
tion of  Japanese  and  Sanscrit  and  Ancient 
Hebrew.  I  could  n't  read  even  the  signa- 
ture. All  I  could  read  was,  "  xiii  Meow 
Nig.,"  and  if  this,  as  indicated,  meant  thir- 
teen hairs  from  the  tail  of  a  black  cat  and 
had  been  written  in  pure  food  law  lan- 
guage, while  I  would  have  eaten  the  pre- 
scription just  as  hopefully,  the  good  doctor 
[62] 


"BETTER  SEE  THE  DOCTOR" 

might  have  been  handicapped  by  the  hu- 
mane society. 

I  took  the  prescription  straight  to  the 
druggist.  He  might  be  able  to  read  it  all, 
but  I  would  never  know.  If  he  could  n't 
read  it,  or  had  n't  time  to  stop  and  read  it, 
then  he  would  be  at  liberty  to  fill  it  from 
what  he  had  the  most  of. 

"  Well,"  I  announced  that  evening  to 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Me,  announced  it 
blithely,  as  befitting  a  Spartan  returning 
with  his  shield  instead  of  upon  it,  "  I  saw 
the  doctor  to-day." 

"  Oh !  You  did !  "  piped  the  Lady-Who- 
Married-Me,  much  expectant.  "  What  did 
he  say?  " 

"  Nothing,  special." 

"  What  did  he  say  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Nothing,  special." 

"  What  did  he  give  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  confessed  with  dig- 
nity. "  But  it  will  cure  whatever  I  have." 

"  I  do  believe  you  look  better  already," 
encouraged  the  Lady-Who-Married-Me. 
"  He  certainly  is  a  fine  doctor." 

[63] 


CHAPTER  V 

A   LITTLE    FLIER    IN   APPENDICITIS 

A  PRESCRIPTION, however, won't 
cure  everything.  Take  appendici- 
tis, for  instance! 

Some  persons  are  born  to  appendicitis  — 
as  well  as  to  measles,  whooping  cough, 
chickenpox,  scarlet  fever,  sprained  ankle, 
broken  arm,  diphtheria,  typhoid,  pneumo- 
nia, and  so  on  through  all  the  list.  You 
know  such  individuals,  and  so  do  I.  And 
some  persons  have  appendicitis  thrust  upon 
them.  I  am  they.  But  to  assert  that  any- 
body should  deliberately  acquire  appendi- 
citis is  a  libel  upon  human  intelligence. 
All  these  gibes  about  appendicitis  being  a 
fashionable  cult  are  rot.  All  these  jokes 
about  having  your  appendix  removed 
"  while  you  wait "  are  rot.  I  used  to  be 
that  kind  of  a  scoffer  myself. 

No  person  who  has  a  grain  of  sense  will 
yearn  to  have  an  unoffending  appendix  re- 

[64] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

moved  just  for  the  experience;  and  no  sane 
person  who  has  had  the  appendix  removed 
will  bid  for  the  operation  to  be  repeated. 
Fortunately  it  can't  be.  A  beneficent  Crea- 
tor has  given  man  only  one  appendix.  Man 
does  n't  need  even  that;  but  there  are  many 
surgeons,  so  let  him  be  generous. 

Appendicitis  formerly  masqueraded  as 
colic,  stomach  complaint,  intestinal  fever, 
and  other  ground-floor  obscurities.  Through 
generation  after  generation  the  appendix 
remained  a  sort  of  poor  relation  in  the  hu- 
man system,  as  unacknowledged  as  though 
undiscovered.  Now  it  is  being  discovered 
and  acknowledged  every  hour,  and  oftener. 
I  discovered  mine  suddenly  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  As  a  result  repu- 
diated, it  is  to-day  in  retreat  in  a  bottle,  and 
there  it  shall  stay.  No  sympathy  need  be 
wasted  on  an  appendix. 

Chagrined  at  thus  having  fallen  under 
suspicion  myself,  and  still  somewhat  skep- 
tical, I  felt  I  must  admit  the  Lady-Who- 
Married-Me  into  my  discovery — albeit  I 
was  resolved  not  to  confess  my  shame  out- 
side the  immediate  family  circle.  We  can- 

[65] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

vassed  the  situation,  took  careful  observa- 
tions, verified  the  latitude  and  longitude, 
and  finally  with  bated  breath  acknowledged 
the  hateful  fact. 

When  the  doctor  arrived  I  obligingly 
volunteered  him  a  plain  case  of  colic  caused 
by  toast  and  scrambled  eggs,  or  of  neuralgia 
of  the  stomach.  It  might  easily  have  been 
either;  the  main  turmoil  being  center  of 
stage,  so  to  speak;  and  either  would  much 
simplify  the  situation  when  one  is  busy  — 
as  one  always  is  if  threatened  by  an  illness. 
I  never  knew  an  illness  to  come  that  did  n't 
encroach  upon  a  rush  order,  or  else  upon 
a  vacation. 

However,  to  return  to  our  appendix  (I 
use  this  plural  possessive  in  a  collective 
sense,  hoping,  now  that  the  reader  is  inter- 
ested, he  has,  or  has  had,  an  appendix  of 
his  own).  The  doctor  smiled  gently,  even 
wearily  (the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  was 
horribly  solemn),  and  remarking  that  it  un- 
doubtedly was  a  colic  of  a  certain  descrip- 
tion, he  proceeded  to  prod  meditatively 
with  his  fingers  that  same  old  spot  located 
slightly  in  the  northwest  corner  of  the  south- 
[66] 


Whenever  he  made  me  say  '  Ouch  ! '  he  appeared  particularly 
gratified." — Page  67 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN  APPENDICITIS 

east  section  of  township  7-12-6:30,  range 
45  degrees  west  of  the  abdominal  meridian. 

"  Um-m-m.  A  little  colic,  evidently,"  he 
murmured. 

A  little  COLIC!  But  I  let  this  pass. 
Through  several  years  I  have  noted  that 
doctors,  when  summoned  for  headache,  or 
backache,  or  toeache,  or  —  er,  neuralgia  of 
the  stomach,  invariably  begin  with  that  spot 
just  inward  from  and  above  the  right  hip. 
Their  fingers  may  stray  to  other  parts  of 
the  anatomy,  but  they  always  return  again. 
It  seems  to  be  an  infernal  habit.  Occasion- 
ally my  doctor  sighed,  audibly,  as  if  fas- 
cinated by  the  little  tune  that  he  was  pick- 
ing out  here  and  there  (mostly  here)  upon 
my  lower  front  dedicated  to  aldermanic 
promise;  and  whenever  he  made  me 
say  "Ouch!"  he  appeared  particularly 
gratified. 

So,  finally,  as  the  moments  fled,  and  as  the 
enjoyment  was  all  one-sided  (a  fact  which 
he  seemed  bent  upon  proving),  I  ventured 
to  expostulate,  mildly  but  firmly,  "  Cut  it 
out,  doctor  "  -  just  to  intimate  that  I  had 
been  explored  that  way  before,  that  it  was 

[67] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

an  old  dodge  and  there  was  nothing  doing, 
that  I  had  an  engagement  downtown  in  fif- 
teen minutes,  and  that  he  had  better  give 
me  a  dose  of  peppermint  or  paregoric  and 
let  me  go. 

But  he  misunderstood  me;  and  leaning 
back,  with  finger-tips  together  and  a  satis- 
fied air,  he  declared,  blandly:  "  I  believe 
I  will!" 

Some  persons  are  enabled  to  wait,  and  to 
have  the  appendix  deleted  when  it 's  asleep. 
That  is  all  right,  if  you  can  wait  or  if  you 
have  n't  the  money.  If  you  can't  wait  and 
have  n't  the  money,  then  the  surgeon  can  do 
the  waiting.  For  this  is  one  of  the  most 
aggravating  features  of  appendicitis:  to 
have  to  pay  for  something  you  never  have 
used  and  don't  want  and  don't  need.  A 
$500  appendix,  only  two  or  three  inches 
long  and  entirely  obsolete  and  worthless,  is 
a  frightful  extravagance. 

I  couldn't  wait;  and  while  the  Lady- 
Who-Married-Me  fluttered  disconsolately 
upon  the  front  steps,  and  neighbors  flat- 
tened their  noses  against  front  windows,  I 
was  whirled  away,  swathed  in  ambulance 
[68] 


A   LITTLE   FLIER    IN   APPENDICITIS 

blankets,  lying  ignominiously  on  my  back, 
bound  for  the  unknown. 

But  after  all,  what  is  a  simple  operation 
for  appendicitis,  huh?  Bah!  Pooh!  A 
topic  for  jokes  in  the  comic  columns.  Some- 
thing as  common  as  measles.  An  incon- 
venience of  perhaps  six  days  —  my  doctor 
had  been  up  and  around  in  six  days;  per- 
haps of  ten  days  —  for  Mrs.  Jones,  wife  of 
Jones  the  haberdasher,  had  been  up  and  out 
in  ten  days;  perhaps,  perhaps  of  two  weeks 
at  the  farthest  —  for  Jones,  who  had  caught 
it  from  his  wife,  was  a  two  weeks'  man. 

It  comprehends  merely  making  a  quick 
incision  with  a  very  sharp  instrument,  snip- 
ping off  a  dangling  thing  about  as  large  as 
a  fishworm,  and  closing  the  wound  again, 
whereat  it  heals  immediately  by  first  inten- 
tion; modern  surgery,  you  know. 

When  the  doctor  politely  asked  us  which 
hospital  we  preferred,  the  Lady-Who-Mar- 
ried-Me  and  I  were  abashed.  We  did  n't 
prefer;  and  our  experience  as  onlookers 
was  that  no  matter  at  what  hospital  any- 
body had  been  he  (or  she)  always  wished 
that  he  (or  she)  had  tried  another;  it 's  just 

[69] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

the  same  as  summer  resorts.  We  fain  must 
tell  the  doctor,  offhand,  to  take  any  and 
have  the  little  job  over  with,  so  that  I  would 
get  back  to  work  within  the  week. 

The  hospital  loomed  large  and  austere, 
especially  to  a  man  on  his  back  making  exit 
feet  first  from  the  ambulance.  He  has 
scarcely  time  wishfully  to  choose  the  pret- 
tiest one  of  the  nurses  who  look  curiously 
down  from  the  windows  above  when  he 
glides,  still  wormish,  underneath  a  port- 
cullis, which  clangs  behind  him  like  the 
clang  of  doom,  and  the  elevator  slowly  as- 
cends. A  hospital  elevator  does  not  hurry, 
but  it  is  as  purposeful  as  a  fat  man  board- 
ing a  car. 

At  this  stage  my  neuralgia  of  the  stomach 
was  much  better;  indeed,  it  had  quite  van- 
ished, and  I  felt  very  well  and  strong  again. 
An  operation  seemed  superfluous  this  time; 
but  the  elevator  man  was  callous,  and 
claimed  that  he  lacked  authority  in  such 
a  matter.  Landed,  we  (I  am  employing 
here  the  editorial  pronoun)  went  rolling, 
toes  and  face  beseechingly  up,  down  a  long 
corridor,  hastening  toward  the  inevitable. 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

Important  as  that  stomach  was  to  us,  the 
nurses  encountered  all  looked  bored,  and 
a  supercilious  whisper  pervaded  the  corri- 
dor atmosphere:  "Who's  that?"  "Oh, 
just  another  appendicitis  case."  "  Heigh- 
hum."  Whereupon  the  stomach  tuned  up 
again,  as  any  self-respecting  stomach  should. 
We  felt  just  as  serious  as  possible,  and  in- 
voked a  deathlike  pallor. 

The  succeeding  preparations  were  both 
ominous  and  interesting.  The  feat,  alone, 
of  disrobing,  acrobatically,  without  leaving 
one's  back,  and  the  donning  (assisted  by  the 
remarkably  calm  and  mandatory  nurse)  of 
the  hospital  gown,  or  shirt,  or  shirtee,  is  an 
act  appalling. 

When  the  doctor  strolled  in  I  explained 
to  him  the  exact  circumstances  which  had 
developed:  that  the  neuralgia  of  the  stom- 
ach had  ceased,  that  the  —  er,  slight  tender- 
ness in  section,  township  and  range  hereto- 
fore described  had  (Ouch!)  disappeared, 
that  I  had  had  a  nice  ride  down,  that  folks 
were  very  kind  to  me  and  that  I  was  ready 
to  go  home. 

He  smiled  indulgently,  and  made  me  say 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

"  Ouch !  "  again ;  and  having  toyed  with 
my  wrist  and  glanced  at  my  tongue,  strolled 
out.  I  stood  about  as  much  show  as  a  man 
in  the  dentist's  chair,  with  his  lower  jaw 
weighted  open,  and  a  gag  between  his  teeth, 
and  a  rubber  dam  and  a  suction  pump  in. 
They  had  shirteed  me  with  the  intention 
of  cutting  something  out;  otherwise  I  had 
gained  admittance  under  false  pretenses. 

When  not  frightened  half  to  death  my 
branch  of  the  Smith  family  is  game;  and 
unresisting,  like  a  lamb  being  conducted 
slaughterward,  I  permitted  two  porters  to 
wrap  me  again  in  blankets.  This  was  wel- 
come as  at  least  covering  the  shirtee. 

Arrived  thus,  in  suspense,  while  one  is 
en  route  through  a  monitory  atmosphere  of 
bustle  and  ether,  the  vista  of  white  ceiling 
and  white  walls  is  agreeably  interrupted  by 
perhaps  a  passing  view  into  a  side  room 
where  a  line  of  hairy-armed  humans  —  or 
inhumans  —  in  extreme  negligee  are  scrub- 
bing themselves  over  a  row  of  stationary 
laundry  tubs.  These  are  surgeons,  before 
and  after.  Scoffers  at  appendicitis  usually 
are  treated  to  this  spectacle;  I  was. 

[72] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

The  vision  vanishes,  for  now  we  (edito- 
rial we  again)  are  halted,  half  turned,  and 
skillfully  wheeled  backward,  crablike,  into 
a  small  white  compartment  where  hover 
white  forms,  male  and  female,  cowled  as 
monks  and  nuns,  mingling  the  angelic  with 
the  demoniacal. 

They  are  going  to  chloroform  us!  The 
crucial  moment  is  in  perigee.  At  this  junc- 
ture it  is  quite  proper  that  we  outwardly 
remain  bold  and  stoical,  but  that  tumultu- 
ous thoughts  surge  through  our  brain. 
There  are  many  dogs  and  cats,  in  trunks  and 
washboilers,  to  recall  distinctly.  Arise  tneir 
doleful  yelps  and  yowls.  Never  again  will 
we  chloroform  a  supplicating,  defenseless 
animal. 

The  nurses  are  binding  closer  the 
blankets,  and  are  pinning  the  folds  across 
arms  and  legs. 

"  So  you  won't  strike  or  kick,"  they  ex- 
plain, pleasantly. 

Extraordinarily  jocular  and  light-hearted 
are  these  nurses,  for  attendants  in  a  place 
of  torment.  Possibly  they  do  not  realize 
that  we  are  of  much  concern  in  this  mun- 

[73] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

dane  sphere;  that  when  we  are  cut  into, 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Us  also  is  cut  into, 
that  various  other  Smiths  are  cut  into,  that 
certain  business  deals  are  cut  into,  that  per- 
haps a  future  Congress,  if  not  a  future 
Presidential  chair,  is  cut  into.  It  may  be 
only  an  appendix  operation,  but  it  is  never- 
theless, in  this  case,  a  serious  and  solemn 
matter. 

"  So  you  won't  strike  or  kick,"  they  said, 
did  they?  This  brings  up  a  hideous  suspi- 
cion. When  people  are  under  an  anaes- 
thetic they  are  not  responsible.  The 
question  with  you  is,  not  what  you  will  do 
(you  don't  care  whom  you  swat),  but  what 
you  will  say.  Of  course,  everything  you 
ever  have  heard  or  read  of  chloroforming 
and  etherizing  must  needs  flood  your  mind, 
and  particularly  the  assertion  that  the  pa- 
tient is  liable  to  reveal  that  traitorous  sub- 
consciousness  lurking  ready  for  just  such  an 
occasion.  Gentle  women  have  been  known 
to  babble  shockingly,  and  the  levee  tough 
has  been  known  to  pray.  How  are  you 
going  to  break  out?  Are  you  a  dual  per- 
sonality, the  worse  half  of  which  is  about 

[74] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

to  ramp  around  hideously  and  satyr-like? 
Jimmy!  And  will  you  ever  know?  Will 
the  Lady-Who-Married-You  ever  know? 

"  Fine  heart  action.  You  're  all  right," 
declares  the  anaesthetist,  bluffly,  tucking 
away  his  stethoscope  thing,  and  sitting  be- 
hind the  top  of  your  head. 

There  is  anointing,  for  the  sacrifice,  of 
nostrils  and  chin. 

"  So  you  won't  be  burned,"  explains  the 
accommodating  nurse. 

Another  stations  herself  by,  upon  a  stool, 
watch  in  hand  and  cool  fingers  upon  your 
wrist.  These  attentions  are  touching  — 
and,  since  the  operation  is  for  only  appen- 
dicitis, not  at  all  reassuring.  While  you 
would  not  voice  the  thought,  you  wish  that 
the  Lady-Who-Married-You  were  near,  to 
hold  your  hand  and  to  receive  your  last 
word  and  testament. 

It  is  rather  pathetic,  this  scene:  a  once 
strong  man  bound  fast  upon  the  flat,  hard 
white  pallet  in  a  secret  chamber,  with  ap- 
pendicitis ravaging  his  vitals  and  these 
hooded,  ku-klux  figures  besetting  him  to 
work  their  will. 

[75] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

But  you  are  about  to  be  launched;  for 
a  strip  of  cloth  laid  across  veils  those  brave 
eyes  of  yours,  and  a  pungent  odor  assails 
those  quivering  nostrils. 

"  He  does  n't  care.  He  's  not  nervous," 
praises  a  voice  afar. 

"  N-no,  n-not  a  b-bit,"  you  affirm,  through 
cold  sweat,  and  smiling  ghastly  out  from 
your  mask  of  cloth. 

You  wish  that  you  had  been  a  better  man ; 
that  is  all. 

Surgeons  used  to  do  their  own  anaesthetiz- 
ing (being  hospital  educated  I  can  talk  that 
word  just  as  fluently  as  I  write  it)  and 
jammed  the  stuff  down  your  exhaust  with 
a  rudeness  irritating  to  a  sensitive  organiza- 
tion. To  chew  on  a  bullet  was  much  pref- 
erable, or  to  be  hit  with  a  club.  What 
with  keeping  the  chloroform  lid  on,  hold- 
ing the  leg  with  one  hand  and  cutting  it  off 
with  the  other,  the  old-time  surgeon  had 
many  a  busy  hour  and  few  moments  to  de- 
vote to  polite  amenities. 

But  to-day  the  details  of  an  operation  are 
fully  differentiated.  One  man  dopes,  an- 
other handles  the  knife,  another  the  fork, 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

another  the  spoon.  The  anaesthetist  having 
his  own  separate  fee  to  earn,  goes  to  work 
as  if  aware  of  the  fact  and  its  responsibili- 
ties. My  anaesthetist  (it  is  great  to  be  em- 
powered thus  to  add  to  your  property  list 
a  surgeon  or  two,  an  anaesthetist,  a  hospital, 
and  a  nurse)  my  anaesthetist  was  a  kind  of 
dilettante.  He  took  a  real  aesthetic  pleasure 
in  the  delicacies  of  his  art.  His  fingers 
seemed  to  play  in  a  spiritualistic  fashion 
about  my  mustache,  there  was  a  wafty  sen- 
sation across  the  mouth  and  nostrils,  and 
a  sweetish  odor  which  he  apologetically 
removed  whenever  I  was  getting  used  to  it. 
This  sort  of  entertainment,  as  protracted 
and  as  leisurely  courteous  as  bargain  day  in 
an  Oriental  bazar,  continued  apparently  for 
some  time;  and  lying  there  comfortably 
upon  the  pallet,  with  eyes  closed,  the  an- 
aesthetist breathing  upon  my  brow  and  fem- 
ininity holding  my  wrist,  I  began  to  wax 
sleepy;  for  it  had  been  a  fatiguing  day. 
However,  't  would  never  do  to  drop  off  to 
sleep;  the  surgeons  might  then  start  in 
under  a  misapprehension.  Ugh!  Fancy 
the  mutual  astonishment. 

[77] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

So  I  had  better  go  upon  record. 

"  Does  n't  seem  to  have  any  effect,"  I 
mumble.  "  What 's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh,  no  hurry,"  soothes  my  anaesthetist. 
"  We  '11  take  our  time.  They  (I  knew  who 
they  were)  are  n't  ready  yet,  anyway." 

Silence.  Continued  spiritualistic  finger- 
ings and  waftings. 

"  Don't  let  them  begin  cutting  too  soon." 
I  have  since  learned  that  this  injunction  by 
the  patient  was  not  original  with  me.  They 
all  say  it. 

My  anaesthetist  assures  that  he  won't. 

More  silence,  and  manipulations  as  be- 
fore mentioned. 

This  is  pleasant,  being  chloroformed  - 
if  only  the  chloroform  would  take  effect. 
Evidently  you  are  a  hard  subject  to  put 
under.  You  hope  that  they  are  interpret- 
ing the  difficulty.  Perhaps  they  are,  for 
they  seem  to  be  working  more  persistently, 
and  the  wafty  odors  are  somewhat  in- 
creased. But  all  that  is  accomplished  is 
to  make  your  ears  buzz,  interfering  with 
the  point  of  the  funny  story  which  your  an- 
aesthetist is  now  telling  to  the  nurses. 
[78] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

"  Sheel  fleepy,"  you  warn.  "  Not  chlor'- 
form,  though.  Jus'  tired." 

"  All  right,"  responds  your  anaesthetist 
"  No  hurry." 

The  little  room  is  very  quiet.  Without, 
in  the  corridors,  is  careless  laughter,  patter 
of  busy  feet;  but  within,  a  small  silent 
circle  is  gravely  watching  that  wondrous 
and  merciful  transformation  of  a  quick  and 
sentient  being  into  a  living  corpse. 

"  Shleep  minute.    Wait-bit.    Notready." 

The  buzzing  is  annoying;  it  gives  a  dizzy 
sensation.  Aside  from  that,  your  eyes  and 
tongue  together  are  deliciously  heavy,  and 
you  simply  have  got  to  take  a  little  nap. 

"  G'by.    Don't-start.    Canfeelyet." 

You  will  have  to  depend  upon  the  other 
persons  in  the  room  to  keep  the  surgeons 
away  while  you  are  helplessly  dozing. 
They  will,  won't  they?  Meanwhile,  the 
blackness  behind  your  closed  eyes  is  curi- 
ously scintillant  with  flat  sparks;  the  buzz- 
ing of  swarming  bees  in  your  ears  is  terrific; 
and  as  you  gaze  and  listen,  with  sudden 
sickening  swoop  you  have  slipped  from  the 
pallet  and  headlong  plunge  down,  down, 

[79] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

down  through  midnight  space.  Struggling, 
pawing,  fighting  for  a  way,  you  rise  out  of 
the  depths  of  the  Icarian  dive,  and  break 
the  surface.  Like  butterflies  the  white  caps 
and  sweet  faces  of  nurses  flutter  above  you. 
Your  eyes  refuse  to  focus  and  wearily  you 
must  close  them.  What 's  the  matter  - 
what  has  happened  —  where  are  you,  and 
why?  Why  is  a  mouse?  You  stammer 
with  thick  utterance,  appealing  generally. 

"  Where  'm  I?" 

"  In  your  room." 

This  is  to  be  digested  a  moment.  Then 
abruptly  a  poignant  alarm  assails.  The 
question  quavers  weakly,  fearfully. 

"  But  they  have  n't  done  it  yet?  " 

"  Oh,  yes."  The  nurse's  voice  tinkles 
seraphic.  "  It 's  all  over  with." 

Thank  God!  And  you're  alive.  The 
Lady-Who-Married-You  must  be  so  in- 
formed at  once. 

"  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  Eleven  o'clock." 

Jee-rusalem!     Four  hours  obliterated  - 

wiped  off  the  mental  map,  leaving  trace  of 

not  even  a  dream!    Impossible!    Or  is  this 

[80] 


A  LITTLE    FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

itself  but  a  dream?  You  would  like  to  ex- 
plore that  spot,  to  see  if  the  news  is  really 
true;  but  you  dare  not,  lest  you  wake  your- 
self up  in  the  midst  of  the  operation.  And 
as  you  again  open  your  mouth,  in  sickly, 
babyish  fashion,  the  ministering  angel  in 
white  cap  deftly  inserts  an  ambrosial  swab 
-  icy  cold,  w7et,  and  grateful  as  a  drop  of 
water  to  a  Dives.  When  you  shut  down 
upon  it  as  feverishly  as  a  starving  kitten, 
she  says:  "  Don't  do  that.  Don't  swallow 
any.  It  will  make  you  sick."  This  diverts 
you. 

Now,  if  one  might  stop  right  here,  ap- 
pendicitis surgically  treated  might  justly 
be  compared  to  the  eradication  of  a  wart; 
and  scoffers  would  be  right  in  proclaiming: 
"  Aw,  there 's  nothing  to  it."  No,  and 
there  's  nothing  to  jumping  off  the  Brook- 
lyn Bridge  until  you  're  in  the  water. 

A  surgeon  proffered  a  statement  for 
$1000  to  a  parent  —  or  maybe  a  husband; 
more  likely  a  husband.  And  the  husband 
kicked,  demanding  an  itemized  account. 
This  promptly  came. 

[Si] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

For  operating $     i 

For  knowing  how   999 

So  in  appendicitis  the  patient's  account 
should  read: 

Operation   Nothing  doing 

Getting  over  it  .  .     Wow 

That  mingled  chloroform  and  ether,  so 
unobtrusive  and  benevolent  in  its  entrance, 
during  your  unconsciousness  has  turned  into 
a  viper  in  your  bosom  and  makes  exit  with 
a  sting  in  its  tail.  Seems  to  me  that  I  have 
read  of  vipers  with  horny,  sting-y  tails;  but 
rather  than  be  accused  of  nature-faking  I 
will  compromise  on  scorpions.  A  scorpion, 
then.  Some  victims  must  acknowledge  the 
sting  with  a  series  of  howls  like  those  of  a 
Comanche  Indian  or  of  a  mad  wolf;  others 
are  palely  stoical;  a  few  are  immune - 
and  the  nurse  praises: 

"  You  came  out  beautifully.     Just  as  if 
you  were  waking  up." 

The  lightest  phase  of  this  "  waking  up  " 
is  about  as  exhilarating  as  the  morning  after 
the  celebration  of  New  Year's  resolutions. 
[82] 


Here  it  is  necessary  to  wax  personal 
again,  for  this  is  to  be  a  human  document, 
and  the  honest  confession  of  a  reformed 
scoffer. 

Awakening,  I  found  much  to  occupy  me 
immediately.  I  must  not  swallow  that  de- 
licious swab;  I  must  ascertain  whether  the 
nurse  was  solitary  or  in  triplicate;  and  I 
reeked  of  ether  at  every  pore  —  tasting  only 
ether  with  a  tongue  which  felt  like  a  freshly 
painted  shingle.  Presently  I  discovered 
that  my  bed  was  "  up  by  the  head  "  to  the 
height  of  two  saw-horses,  and  that  I  was 
snugly  ensconced  in  a  colicky  attitude  on 
my  spine,  knees  well  aloft  and  held  there 
by  a  trapese  run  through  under  them.  Pil- 
lows wedged  against  the  soles  of  my  feet 
nicely  perfected  the  posture  —  it  being 
"  Fowler's  position."  Dr.  Fowler  himself 
died  from  appendicitis  —  but  they  don't  tell 
the  patient  this  until  he  is  well.  If  he 
does  n't  get  well  he  finds  out  for  himself, 
no  doubt. 

From  some  part  of  my  anatomy  a  long 
rubber  tube  connected  with  an  elevated 
glass  tank  six  or  twenty  feet  distant  (space 

[83] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

being  still  an  uncertain  quantity)  ;  and  be- 
tween times  I  studied  this,  wondering 
whether  I  was  going  out  or  coming  in. 

Now  anybody  who  insists  that  appendi- 
citis amounts  to  "  nothing,"  and  that  Na- 
ture is  going  to  sit  calmly  by,  knitting,  while 
an  alien  force  rips  through  a  layer  of  hide 
and  three  or  four  layers  of  muscles,  and 
invades  a  sanctum  sanctorum  maintained 
under  a  strict  Monroe  Doctrine  through 
ten,  twenty,  thirty,  forty  years,  is  an  ass. 
This,  my  deluded  sir  and  madam,  is  an  AB- 
DOMINAL OPERATION  —  and  a  score  of  years 
ago  the  surgeon  who  got  into  the  human 
abdomen  and  out  again  without  leaving  an 
abscess  or  a  pair  of  forceps,  was  deemed 
not  so  much  skillful  as  lucky.  To-day  the 
abdomen  is  no  longer  sacred,  and  is  far 
better  known  than  the  interior  of  Thibet. 
But  Nature  continues  to  protest. 

To  cough  is  hara-kiri;  to  sneeze  is  per- 
foration by  a  red-hot  poker;  to  respond  to 
nausea  is  longitudinal  suspension  between 
opposing  wild  horses. 

"  Try  to  sleep,"  implores  the  nurse. 

I  try.    There  is  nothing  that  I  would  not 

[34] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

do  for  that  nurse,  lest  she  leave  me  aban- 
doned to  my  fate.  I  don't  marvel  that 
patients  usually  would  like  to  marry  their 
nurse,  so  as  to  keep  her  handy.  I  close  my 
eyes,  and  am  just  floating  away  —  I  don't 
care  where  —  when  below  there,  inside, 
some  imp  (Boots,  the  house-boy,  or  other 
mischievous  wight)  darts  from  covert  and 
gives  the  wound  a  violent  twitch. 

"  I  wonder  what  that 's  for,"  he  pipes. 
"  Never  saw  that  before." 

With  an  electric  jump  I  am  wide  awake. 
This  amusing  game  continues  indefinitely. 
Every  time  I  drift  off  (turn  my  back,  so 
to  speak),  that  indefatigable  scalawag  slyly 
jangles  the  doorbell. 

The  painted  tongue  persists.  There  never 
was  such  a  tongue,  never.  The  paint  is  dry 
now,  and  feels  more  like  tar  and  feathers. 

"  Can't  I  have  a  drink?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  give  you  a  drink."  And  so 
she  does  —  a  teaspoonful  of  hot  water, 
which  I  am  instructed  to  swallow  slowly. 

It  has  about  as  much  effect  on  that  tarred 
and  feathered  tongue  as  a  drop  of  dew  on 
a  hip  rubber  boot. 

[85] 


HOW  ARE   YOU   FEELING  NOW? 

This  is  a  new  occupation:  waiting  for 
that  teaspoonful  of  hot  water,  which  arrives 
every  half  hour.  One's  thoughts  dwell  upon 
it,  and  one  listens  eagerly  for  the  nurse's 
step,  returning;  one's  mouth  opens,  in  ad- 
vance, like  a  nestling  birdie's.  To  such  a 
plane  is  reduced  a  once  strong  mind. 

In  the  midst  of  this  humiliating  pastime 
the  Lady-Who-Married-Me  enters  timidly, 
half-smilingly,  half-tearfully. 

"  Dearest!  "  she  says.    "  How  are  you?  " 

"  Fine,"  I  say.  "  Listen.  Come  closer. 
Let  us  sing,  l  Little  Drops  of  Water.' ' 

The  nurse  makes  her  withdraw;  and  she 
goes,  blanched  because  she  deems  me  crazed 
by  my  experiences  of  the  past  ten  hours. 

The  dose  is  doubled,  to  two  teaspoonfuls 
at  a  time.  Nevertheless,  despite  this  gener- 
osity in  water-rights,  the  waking  dreams  of 
a  human  being  dying  on  the  Death  Valley 
desert  obsess  the  brain.  I  see  again  the 
Mississippi  River  of  boyhood  (and  anyway 
no  other  river  would  have  sufficed)  ;  as  it 
ripples  by  raft  and  sandbar  I  take  repeated 
headers  into  its  wet,  luscious  depths.  I 
stand  out  on  the  lawn,  at  home,  and  let  the 
[86] 


Lady-Who-Married-Me  drench  me  with 
the  hose.  Some  confounded  idiot  is  at  the 
very  moment  sprinkling  the  grass  outside 
the  hospital  window  —  I  can  hear  the 
nozzle  fizzing.  I  recall  a  spring,  by  a 
roadside,  and  a  battered  tin  can  upside 
down  on  a  stick,  at  its  verge,  ready  for  the 
next  thirsty  comer.  I  would  trade  Rocke- 
feller's millions  for  a  draught  out  of  that 
old  can.  But  particularly  I  dwell  lovingly 
upon  a  series  of  barrels  which  used  to  stand 
in  the  shady  corners  of  the  runways  among 
the  lumber  piles  of  the  mill-yards  back  by 
that  same  Mississippi.  These  barrels  were 
dark  and  cool  and  dripping  with  their  con- 
tents of  bran  and  water  and  chunks  of  ice. 
A  tin  dipper  lay  upon  the  cover  of  each 
barrel.  The  bran  was  supposed  to  ren- 
der the  drink  innocuous  of  sunstroke  or 
stomachache,  no  matter  how  hot  you  were; 
and  when  we  boys  trailed  through,  burned 
and  perspiring  and  thirsty,  to  and  from 
swimming  and  fishing,  we  halted  at  every 
barrel  and  gulped  recklessly  the  milky  mix- 
ture. There  was  plenty  for  all  —  for  boys 
and  for  mill-hands.  Shooting  the  chutes 

[87] 


HOW  ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

upon  my  spine  in  the  boat  bed  (and  never 
arriving),  knees  elevated  over  the  trapese, 
feet  securely  tucked  against  the  pillows 
below,  head  bolstered  upon  the  pillows 
above,  back  between  curved  like  a  con- 
torted currant  worm  pierced  in  amidships, 
mouth  tasting  now  of  sawdust  and  straw, 
again  and  again  I  sent  my  astral  frame  to 
those  barrels  adown  the  piny,  shady-cor- 
nered runways  —  but  remained  behind  my- 
self, and  accepted  dole  of  two  hot  teaspoon- 
fuls  administered  each  half -hour;  remained 
behind,  upon  that  confounded  bed  and 
played  birdie. 

But  this  succession  of  outrages  as  related 
were  but  preliminaries  to  the  big  show.  I 
had  yet  scarcely  been  conscious  of  the 
wound,  save  when  the  scullion  imp  had 
rung  the  doorbell  to  call  my  attention.  The 
fact  is,  I  believe,  that  a  surgical  incision, 
although  long  and  deep,  when  clean  and 
sewed  and  tightly  bandaged  is  pretty  hard 
to  locate  by  the  patient  in  bed,  who  has  not 
seen  it.  The  pain  has  a  trick  of  transferring 
itself  along  the  nerves  and  sounding  at  a 
distant  station.  So  my  surgeon,  when  he 
[88] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

had  his  appendix  removed,  suffered  not  so 
much  in  the  abdomen  as  in  the  right  thigh 
from  hip  almost  to  knee;  and  I  did  n't  care 
a  rap,  in  general,  for  the  hole  in  my  lower 
right  angle,  but  my  back  and  middle  front 
protested  violently  as  if  they  had  been  cut 
into.  There  also  was  an  aggravating  lump 
in  my  thorax  region,  like  a  chestnut  burr 
lodged  there,  which  the  doctor  said  was  "  a 
sympathetic  irritation  from  a  little  intesti- 
nal disturbance."  'T  was  mistaken  sym- 
pathy, then.  I  tried  for  days  to  swallow 
that  lump,  but  I  budged  it  no  more  than 
a  chicken  budges  a  grain  of  corn  attached 
to  a  thread. 

The  Lady-Who-Married-You  comes  in, 
and  you  are  glad  to  see  her,  although  con- 
siderably preoccupied.  The  tarred  and 
feathered  tongue  still  wears  the  shameful 
livery;  the  lump  in  the  thorax  is  still  an- 
chored fast;  the  three  (three,  now!)  tea- 
spoonfuls  of  hot  water  half-hourly  must  be 
anxiously  anticipated. 

Until  this  recent  diversion  of  appendi- 
citis and  resultant  operation  I  never  real- 
ized what  an  automatic,  willing  household 

[89] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

the  human  body  is;  each  member  willing, 
even  eager,  to  rush  into  a  breach  and  help 
out  some  other  member.  Too  willing  at 
times.  So  I  found  the  muscles  of  the  ab- 
domen arching  up,  with  a  do-or-die  inten- 
sity, to  protect  the  wounded  tissue  and  give 
it  a  chance  to  recover,  just  as  though  the 
surgeon's  dressings  were  not  placed  there 
and  bound  tight  for  exactly  that  purpose. 

'T  was  no  use  trying  to  relax  those  foolish 
muscles.  I  might  as  well  talk  to  the  wind. 
They  arched  so  zealously  that  they  drew  the 
back  up  with  them;  and  soon  the  back,  car- 
ing little  for  what  was  happening  to  the 
abdomen,  grew  tired  of  being  dragged  into 
the  business. 

Of  all  the  little  annoyances  which,  sub 
rosa,  assail  one  who  is  popularly  presumed 
to  be  taking  a  vacation  with  appendicitis, 
this  backache  is  the  most  persistently  worse 
-  and  I  employ  the  phrase  advisedly,  in 
defiance  of  grammarians.  Anybody  who 
has  been  through  an  operation  for  appen- 
dicitis is  entitled  to  privileges. 

You  can't  turn  over  upon  your  right  side, 
for  you  have  about  eight  inches  of  dressing 
[90] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

there  and  that  is  driven  against  the  wound 
like  a  football.  You  can't  turn  upon  your 
left  side,  because  that  hurts  the  right  side. 
Moreover,  neither  position  eases  the  ache 
and  you  are  forbidden  to  turn,  anyway.  So 
there  you  are.  All  the  time  those  zealous, 
perspiring  abdominal  muscles  are  working 
like  Trojans,  each  trying  to  be  an  Atlas  up- 
holding a  world.  And  the  back  waxes 
weaker  and  weaker,  tireder  and  tireder,  but 
is  as  helpless  as  any  weeping  small  boy  in 
tow  of  a  shopping  mother. 

So  far  little  has  been  said  of  the  wound; 
I  do  not  mean  to  omit  it.  If  you  had  a 
"  bad  "  appendix,  with  danger  of  infection, 
through  an  extra  hole  termed  the  "  stab 
wound  "  (gory  term)  a  strip  of  gauze  prob- 
ably has  been  tucked  in,  to  the  place  where 
the  appendix  used  to  be,  for  drainage;  and 
in  about  sixty  hours  it  must  be  extracted. 
It  is  six  or  nine  inches  long,  and  has  frozen 
fast  all  the  way  down,  with  a  final  grip  on 
the  backbone.  The  surgeon  hauls  it  out  by 
quarter-inches;  each  quarter-inch  feels  like 
a  block  of  houses,  uneven  in  height.  Since 
that  experience  I  have  sincerely  pitied  a 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

ship    with    the    anchor    chain    whizzing 
through  her  hawse-hole. 

For  I  had  that  "  bad  "  appendix;  7  had 
that  infernal  plug  pulled  out  by  the  roots; 
I  had  every  extra  on  the  list  save  a  stomach- 
pump.  I  had  an  infection  (notwithstand- 
ing two  surgeons,  a  medical  man,  the  nurse, 
some  porters,  and  the  Lady-Who-Married- 
me),  dropped  off,  thoughtfully,  by  that 
dratted  appendix  en  route  to  the  bottle. 
But  invited  to  the  surface  by  boiling  water 
delicately  dribbled  upon  the  stitch-line  from 
the  height  of  one  foot  every  two  hours  all 
night,  and  a  boiling-water  bag  bound  on 
fast,  between  times,  that  the  memory  might 
not  cool,  the  micrococcus  horde,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  made  exit  with  great  precipi- 
tancy, leaving  a  gigantic  blister  and  an  ori- 
fice through  the  hide  gaping  wider  than  a 
Hottentot's  smile. 

I  had  that.  I  also  had  scissors  trimming 
the  gap  into  charmful  symmetry;  and  a 
knife  paring  it  so  the  edges  should  stick; 
and  stitches  crisscrossing  it  to  hold  those 
edges  together  when  they  might  stick - 
and  until  a  surgeon's  needle,  shaped  like  an 

[92] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

adult  bobcat's  claw,  is  jammed  through 
one's  living  hide  one  does  not  appreciate 
how  thick  that  hide  may  be  on  even  a  thin- 
skinned  person. 

So,  all  in  all,  I  can  assert  that  I  am  com- 
petent to  tell  about  the  appendicitis  cure, 
from  the  standpoint  of  a  layman  —  such 
being  the  paradox. 

The  surgeon  comes  once  or  twice  a  day 
to  inspect  his  handiwork.  This  is  an  event. 
First  the  nurse  bustles  out  and  in  again, 
with  half  a  dozen  granite-ware  pans,  some 
wet,  some  dry.  She  arranges  these  mathe- 
matically upon  the  little  table  beside  the 
bed,  fills  the  interstices  between  them  with 
a  jar  of  boric,  jar  of  sterilized  gauze,  bottle 
of  alcohol,  etc.,  and  from  the  formidable 
roll  of  cotton  which  is  your  especial  prop- 
erty she  plucks  bolls  of  the  stuff  (they  tear 
away  with  a  dry,  gritty  sound  calculated  to 
set  one's  teeth  on  edge)  and  puts  them  to 
float  in  a  pan.  Then  she  unpins  the  girdle 
which  cinches  you  like  any  pack-mule,  and 
with  unexpected  strength  of  wrist  and  arm 
peels  off  a  few  yard-strips  of  adhesive  plas- 
ter —  the  process  laying  bare  your  very  soul. 

[93] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

Now  strides  in  the  surgeon,  sleeves  rolled 
high,  fingers  dripping  suggestively  —  a  per- 
sonage of  extreme  caste,  he,  who  must  not 
touch  anything  that  anybody  else  has 
touched,  not  even  a  door-knob.  The  wound 
is  unveiled  for  his  gaze;  and  squinting 
down  along  your  prostrateness  you  may  see 
for  yourself  the  suture  (looking,  in  its 
stitches,  like  the  lacing  of  a  football)  and 
whether  you  have  drawn  the  McBurney 
incision,  stylishly  on  the  bias,  paralleling 
the  obliquity  of  the  right  hip,  or  one  of  a 
different  pattern  and  more  in  the  middle. 

The  various  instruments  jingle  in  their 
alcohol  bath,  and  you  next  crane  to  note 
which  he  selects  from  the  pan  —  crane  with 
the  apprehension  of  the  dental  chair.  It 
may  be  scissors,  with  which  he  snips  only 
gauze  or  adhesive;  it  may  be  a  diabolical 
probe;  it  may  be  forceps  with  which  to 
jerk  out  stitches  or  to  pull  them  tighter; 
it  may  be  a  tiny  knife,  insignificant  as  a 
pocket  nail-cleaner,  but  gaining  upon  ac- 
quaintance. It  may  be  —  and  let  us  hope 
so  —  nothing. 

The  surgeon  is,  as  may  be  inferred,  an 
[94] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN  APPENDICITIS 

important  factor  in  the  daily  program,  but 
nearer  and  dearer  to  you  is  the  nurse. 
Much  entertainment  will  be  found  in  try- 
ing to  surprise  her  into  admitting  some- 
thing. This  is  excellent  mental  exercise, 
for  a  trained  nurse  must  never,  if  she  can 
avoid,  give  out  information.  My  nurse 
(whom  I  have  reason  to  believe  was  born 
a  bright,  observant  girl)  was  a  perfect  foil 
to  the  art  of  cross-examination.  I  never, 
even  in  her  most  unguarded  moments  when 
she  slumbered  upon  her  cot  at  the  other 
side  of  the  screen,  was  able  to  gather  from 
her  such  innocent  knowledge  as:  who  had 
died  in  that  next  room,  and  what  of; 
whether  somebody  had  not  sometime  died 
in  my  room;  whether  I  was  going  to  die 
myself ;  how  soon  I  was  to  get  up ;  whether 
my  case  was  not  the  worst  in  her  experi- 
ence; whether  anybody  else  suffered  as 
much  as  I;  what  I  had  said  (if  anything) 
when  under  the  anaesthetic;  what  propor- 
tion of  appendicitis  operations  were  fatal; 
who  it  was  that  was  making  such  an  uproar 
across  the  corridor,  and  whether  he  had 
appendicitis;  what  was  that  dose  she  had 

[95] 


HOW   ARE   YOU   FEELING   NOW? 

given  me,  and  why,  etc.,  all  being  queries 
of  vital  moment.  But  she  never  admitted 
even  so  much  as  that  I  was  in  the  hospital. 
The  isolation  was  supreme. 

And  amidst  the  stomachache  and  the 
backache,  the  leg  exercises  as  you  constantly 
slide  down  and  push  up,  the  experimenta- 
tion with  postures  each  more  uncomfort- 
able than  the  others,  the  tarred  and  feath- 
ered tongue,  the  thirst  and  the  imagining 
oneself  under  a  railroad  water  tank  with 
the  spout  full  open,  the  inspection  by  the 
surgeon,  the  tilts  with  the  ingenuity  of  the 
nurse,  there  are  the  visits,  twice  a  day,  from 
Her,  the  Lady-Who-Married-You  —  an- 
gel's visits,  too  few  and  far  between. 

However,  the  post-appendicitis  situation, 
in  acute  form,  does  not  last  forever.  Not 
quite.  Eventually  Nature  becomes  recon- 
ciled to  doing  without  what  she  did  n't  need. 
The  backache  is  a  matter  of  only  a  couple 
of  weeks.  First  your  knees  are  let  down 
from  their  trapese;  and  in  due  time  the 
bed  is  put  upon  even  keel.  Some  day  you 
are  given  a  long,  cold  drink.  It  flows 
through  your  alimentary  canal  like  a  cloud- 

[96] 


A  LITTLE   FLIER   IN   APPENDICITIS 

burst  down  an  Arizona  arroyo.  Some  day 
you  find  (tentatively)  that  you  can  blow 
your  nose  without  tying  your  solar  plexus 
into  a  hard  knot;  and  soon  thereafter  you 
are  emboldened  into  letting  go  of  that 
sneeze  which  you  have  been  holding  in 
leash  for  a  week  or  two. 

Yes,  life  is  becoming  sweet  once  more. 

And  some  day,  some  day,  pale,  wabbly, 
striped  like  a  zebra  with  the  trail  of  the 
adhesive,  out  you  may  go;  full  of  cautions 
and  thankfulness,  and  with  a  slight  list  to 
the  right  where  you  are  a  little  chary  yet 
of  the  calking.  Out  you  go,  to  awaken 
to  the  fact  that  now  when  you  may  drink 
as  much  and  as  often  as  you  please  you 
dream  no  more  pleasant  dreams  of  water 
tanks,  and  you  let  sprinkler  carts  go  by 
without  any  desire  to  follow  behind  them, 
down  the  street.  This  is  a  disappointment. 

THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  368  872    6 


